POEMS 


BY 


WILLIAM    CULLEN   BRYANT, 


COLLECTED     AND     ARRANGED 


BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


IN     TWO      VOLUMES, 


VOL.  L 


NEW  YORK.: 
D.   APPLETON   AND   COMPANY, 

846  &  348  BROADWAY. 

LONDON:    16   LITTLE   BRITAIN 

M.DCCC.LV. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  tho  year  1854,  by 
W.  C.  BRYANT, 

In  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Southern  District  of 
New  York. 


ps 

I 


v./ 


TO   THE  EEADEE. 

[PREFIXED   TO   THE   EDITION   OF    1846.] 


PEKHAPS  it  would  have  been  well  if  the 
author  had  followed  his  original  intention, 
which  was  to  leave  out  of  this  edition,  as  un 
worthy  of  repuhlication,  several  of  the  poems 
which  made  a  part  of  his  previous  collections. 
He  asks  leave  to  plead  the  judgment  of  a' 
literary  friend,  whose  opinion  in  such  matters 
he  highly  values,  as  his  apology  for  having 
retained  them.  With  the  exception  of  the 
first  and  longest  poem  in  the  collection,  "  The 
Ages,"  they  are  all  arranged  accordimg  to  the 
order  of  time  in  which  thej  were  written,  as 
far  as  it  can  be  ascertained. 

New  York,  1846. 


759730 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


THE  present  edition  has  been  carefully 
revised  by  the  author,  and  some  faults  of 
diction  and  versification  corrected.  A  few 
poems  not  in  the  previous  editions  have  been 
added. 

New  York,  August,  1854. 


CONTENTS    OF    VOL.    I. 


POEMS.  Page 

The  Ages 1 

Thanatopsis 25 

The  Yellow  Violet 30 

Inscription  for  the  Entrance  to  a  Wood        .  33 
Song. — "  Soon  as  the  glazed  and  gleaming  snow  "   37 

To  a  Waterfowl 39 

Green  Kiver 42 

A  Winter  Piece        .        .        .       . .        .        .46 

The  West  Wind 64 

The  Burial-place.    A  Fragment  6T 

Blessed  are  they  that  Mourn         .        .        .  61 

No  Man  knoweth  his  Sepulchre        .        .  "      .  63 

A  Walk  at  Sunset       m.  ^ ,:;.v-...  .;   ->:    ;;..;  65 

Hymn  to  Death        .      /.      £,»_-.;.«..•        •  71 

The  Massacre  at  Scio 82 


V1U  CONTENTS. 

POEMS.  Page 

The  Indian  Girl's  Lament        .                         .  84 

Ode  for  an  Agricultural  Celebration      .        .  88 

Kizpah 90 

The  Old  Man's  Funeral         ....  95 

TheEivulet 99 

March           .     -  .      - 105 

Consumption 108 

An  Indian  Story         • 110 

Summer  Wind 116 

An  Indian  at  the  Burial-place  of  his  Fathers  .  119 

Song. — "  Dost  thou  idly  ask  to  hear  "       .        .  124 

Hymn  of  the  Waldenses        ....  127 

Monument  Mountain 129 

After  a  Tempest 138 

Autumn  "Woods        .        .        .        .        .        .  142 

Mutation       . 146 

November 148 

Song  of  the  Greek  Amazon    ....  150 

To  a  Cloud 153 

The  Murdered  Traveller        ....  156 

Hymn  to  the  North  Star 159 

The  Lapse  of  Time 163 

Song  of  the  Stars 167 


CONTENTS.  IX 

POEMS.  Pago 

A  Forest  Hymn    .      ..      . ,/  Ji~*     v.*.  .    .,  •  1V1 

"  Oh  fairest  of  the  rural  maids  "     i, \.  t%v««S  179 

"I  broke  the  spell  that  held  me  long"         .  181 

June :.."  ...:     ..  183 

A  Song  of  Pitcairn's  Island  .        .  V.-:   .  -•  187 

The  Firmament        .        .        .       ':". .  • .   «<       .  190 

"  I  cannot  forget  with  what  fervid  devotion  "  194 

ToaMusquito 197 

Lines  on  Revisiting  the  Country  .        .        .  203 
The  Death  of  the  Flowers        .        .        .        .206 

Romero 210 

A  Meditation  on  Rhode  Island  Coal         .        .  215 

The  New  Moon 222 

October 225 

The  Damsel  of  Peru 227 

The  African  Chief 232 

Spring  in  Town 236 

The  Gladness  of  Nature 241 

The  Disinterred  Warrior       ....  243 

Midsummer 246 

The  Greek  Partisan      .        ....        .        .  248 

The  Two  Graves      .        .        ..-      .        .        .  251 

The  Conjunction  of  Jupiter  and  Venus         .  25G 
VOL.  I. — A* 


X  CONTENTS. 

POEMS.  Page 

A  Summer  Ramble 262 

Scene  on  the  Banks  of  the  Hudson       .        .  267 

The  Hurricane 270 

William  Tell 274 

The  Hunter's  Serenade 276 

The  Greek  Boy 280 

The  Past 283 

NOTES          .        .        .        .        t       ,_     .        .  289 


POEMS. 


POEMS. 


THE  AGES. 


WHEN  to  the  common  rest  that  crowns  our  days. 
Called  in  the  noon  of  life,  the  good  man  goes, 
Or  full  of  years,  and  ripe  in  wisdom,  lays 
His  silver  temples  in  their  last  repose  ; 
When,  o'er  the  buds  of  youth,  the  death-wind 

blows, 

And  blights  the  fairest ;  when  our  bitter  tears 
Stream,  as  the  eyes  of  those  that  love  us  close, 
We  think  on  what  they  were,  with  many  fears 
Lest  goodness  die  with  them,  and  leave  the 

coming  years. 
1 


Z  ,  POEMS. 

II. 

And  therefore,  to  our  hearts,  the  days  gone  by, 
When  lived  the  honoured  sage  whose  death  we 

wept, 

And  the  soft  virtues  beamed  from  many  an  eye, 
And  beat  in  many  a  heart  that  long  has  slept, — 
Like  spots  of  earth  where  angel-feet  have 

stepped, 

Are  holy  ;  and  high-dreaming  bards  have  told 
Of  times  when  worth  was  crowned,  and  faith 

was  kept, 

Ere  friendship  grew  a  snare,  or  love  waxed  cold — 
Those  pure  and  happy  times — the  golden  days 

of  old. 

in. 

Peace  to  the  just  man's  memory  ;   let  it  grow 
Greener  with  years,  and  blossom  through  the 
flight 


THE    AGES.  3 

Of  ages  ;  let  the  mimic  canvas  show 

His  calm  benevolent  features  ;  let  the  light 

Stream  on  his  deeds  of  love,  that  shunned  the 

sight 

Of  all  but  heaven,  and  in  the  book  of  fame, 
The  glorious  record  of  his  virtues  write, 
And  hold  it  up  to  men,  and  bid  them  claim 
A  palm  like  his,  and  catch  from  him  the  hal 
lowed  flame. 


IV. 

But  oh,  despair  not  of  their  fate  who  rise 
To  dwell  upon  the  earth  when  we  withdraw  ! 
Lo !  the  same  shaft  by  which  the  righteous  dies, 
Strikes    through    the   wretch   that   scoffed  at 

mercy's  law, 

And  trode  his  brethren  down,  and  felt  no  awe 
Of  Him  who  will  avenge  them.    Stainless  worth, 
Such  as  the  sternest  age  of  virtue  saw, 


POEMS. 


Kipens,  meanwhile,  till  time  shall  call  it  forth 
From  the  low  modest  shade,  to  light  and  bless 
the  earth. 


v. 

Has  Nature,  in  her  calm,  majestic  march 
Faltered  with  age  at  last  1  does  the  bright  sun 
Grow  dim  in  heaven  ?    or,   in   their  far  blue 

arch, 

Sparkle  the  crowd  of  stars,  when  day  is  done, 
Less    brightly?    when  the  dew-lipped  Spring 

comes  on, 
Breathes  she  with  airs  less  soft,  or  scents  the 

sky 

With  flowers  less  fair  than  when  her  reign  be 
gun? 

Does  prodigal  Autumn,  to  our  age,  deny 
The  plenty  that  once  swelled  beneath  his  sober 
eye? 


THE    AGES.  5 

VI. 

Look  on  this  beautiful  world,  and  read  the  truth 
In  her  fair  page  ;  see,  every  season  brings 
New  change,  to  her,  of  everlasting  youth  ; 
Still  the  green  soil,  with  joyous  living  things, 
Swarms,  the  wide  air  is  full  of  joyous  wings, 
And  myriads,  still,  are  happy  in  the  sleep 
Of  ocean's  azure  gulfs,  and  where  he  flings 
The  restless  surge.     Eternal  Love  doth  keep 
In  his  complacent  arms,  the  earth,  the  air,  the 
deep. 


VII. 

Will  then  the  merciful  One,  who  stamped  our 

race 

With  his  own  image,  and  who  gave  them  sway 
O'er  earth,  and  the  glad  dwellers  on  her  face, 
Now  that  our  swarming  nations  far  away 


6  POEMS. 

Are  spread,  where'er  the  moist  earth  drinks  the 

day, 

Forget  the  ancient  care  that  taught  and  nursed 
His  latest  offspring  ?  will  he  quench  the  ray 
Infused  by  his  own  forming  smile  at  first, 
And  leave  a  work  so  fair  all  blighted  and  ac 
cursed  ? 

Vin. 

Oh,  no  !  a  thousand  cheerful  omens  give 
Hope  of  yet  happier  days,  whose  dawn  is  nigh. 
He  who  has  tamed  the  elements,  shall  not  live 
The  slave  of  his  own  passions  ;  he  whose  eye 
Unwinds  the  eternal  dances  of  the  sky, 
And  in  the  abyss  of  brightness  dares  to  span 
The  sun's  broad  circle,  rising  yet  more  high, 
In  God's  magnificent  works  his  will  shall  scan — 
And  love  and  peace  shall  make  their  paradise 
with  man. 


THE    AGES.  7 

IX. 

Sit  at  the  feet  of  history — through  the  night 
Of  years  the  steps  of  virtue  she  shall  trace, 
And  show  the  earlier  ages,  where  her  sight 
Can  pierce  the  eternal  shadows  o'er  their  face  ;— 
When,  from  the  genial  cradle  of  our  race, 
Went  forth  the  tribes  of  men,  their  pleasant  lot 
To    choose,   where    palm-groves   cooled    their 

dwelling-place, 

Or  freshening  rivers  ran  ;  and  there  forgot 
The  truth  of  heaven,  and  kneeled  to  gods  that 

heard  them  not. 


x. 

Then  waited  not  the  murderer  for  the  night, 
But  smote  his  brother  down  in  the  bright  day, 
And  he  who  felt  the  wrong,  and  had  the  might, 
His  own  avenger,  girt  himself  to  slay  ; 
Beside  the  path  the  unburied  carcass  lay  ; 


8  POEMS. 

The  shepherd,  by  the  fountains  of  the  glen, 
Fled,  while,  the  robber  swept  his  flock  away, 
And  slew  his  babes.     The  sick,  untended  then, 
Languished  in  the  damp  shade,  and  died  afar 
from  men. 


XI. 

But  misery  brought  in  love — in  passion's  strife 
Man  gave  his  heart  to  mercy,  pleading  long, 
And  sought  out  gentle  deeds  to  gladden  life  ; 
The  weak,  against  the  sons  of  spoil  and  wrong, 
Banded,  and  watched  their  hamlets,  and  grew 

strong. 

States  rose,  and,  in  the  shadow  of  their  might, 
The  timid  rested.  '  To  the  reverent  throng, 
Grave  and  time-wrinkled  men,  with  locks  all 

white, 
Gave  laws,  and  judged  their  strifes,  and  taught 

the  way  of  right  ; 


THE    AGES.  9 

XII. 

Till  bolder  spirits  seized  trie  rule,  and  nailed 
On  men  the  yoke  that  man  should  never  bear, 
And  drove  them  forth  to  bat  tie.     Lo  !  unveiled 
The  scene  of  those  stern  ages  !     What  is  there ! 
A  boundless  sea  of  blood,  and  the  wild  air 
Moans  with  the  crimson  surges  that  entomb 
Cities  and  bannered  armies  ;  forms  that  wear 
The  kingly  circlet  rise,  amid  the  gloom, 
O'er  the  dark  wave,  and  straight  are  swallowed 
in  its  womb. 

XIII. 

Those  ages  have  no  memory — but  they  left 
A  record  in  the  desert — columns  strown 
On  the  waste  sands,  and  statues  fallen  and  cleft, 
Heaped  like  a  host  in  battle  overthrown  ; 
Vast  ruins,  where  the  mountain's  ribs  of  stone 
Were  hewn  into  a  city  ;  streets  that  spread 
l* 


10  POEMS. 

In  the  dark  earth,  where  never  breath  has  hlown 
Of  heaven's  sweet  air,  nor  foot  of  man  dares  tread 
The  long  and  perilous  ways — the  Cities  of  the 
Dead : 


Xiv. 

And  tombs  of  moiiarchs  to  the  clouds  up-piled — 
They  perished — -but  the  eternal  tombs  remain — 
And  the  black  precipice,  abrupt  and  wild, 
Pierced  by  long  toil  and  hollowed  to  a  fane  ; — 
Huge  piers  and  frowning  forms  of  gods  sustain 
The  everlasting  arches,  dark  and  wide, 
Like  the  night-heaven,  when  clouds  are  black 

with  rain. 
But  idly  skill  was  tasked,  and  strength  was 

plied, 
All  was  the  work  of  slaves  to  swell  a  despot's 

pride. 


THE   AGES.  11 

XV. 

And  Virtue  cannot  dwell  with  slaves,  nor  reign 
O'er  those  who  cower  to  take  a  tyrant's  yoke  ; 
She  left  the  down-trod  nations  in  disdain, 
And  flew  to  Gi-reece,  when  Liberty  awoke, 
New-born,  amid  those  glorious  vales,  and  broke 
Sceptre  and  chain  with  her  fair  youthful  hands : 
As  rocks  are  shivered  in  the  thunder-stroke. 
And  lo  !     in  full-grown    strength,  an  empire 

stands 
Of  leagued  and  rival  states,  the  wonder  of  the 

lands. 

XVI. 

Oh,  Greece  !  thy  flourishing  cities  were  a  spoil 
Unto  each  other  ;  thy  hard  hand  oppressed 
And  crushed  the  helpless  ;  thou  didst  make  thy 

soil 
Drunk  with  the  blood  of  those  that  loved  thee 

best  ; 


12  FOKMS. 

A.nd  thou  didst  drive,  from  thy  unnatural  breast, 
Thy  just  and  brave  to  die  in  distant  climes  ; 
Earth  shuddered  at  thy  deeds,  and  sighed  foi 

rest 

From  thine  abominations  ;  after  times, 
That  yet  shall  read  thy  tale,  will  tremble  at 

thy  crimes. 


XVII. 

Yet  there  was  that  within  thee  which  has  saved 
Thy  glory,  and  redeemed  thy  blotted  name  ; 
The  story  of  thy  better  deeds,  engraved 
On  fame's  unmouldering  pillar,  puts  to  shame 
Our  chiller  virtue  ;  the  high  art  to  tame 
The  whirlwind  of  the  passions  was  thine  own ; 
A.nd  the  pure  ray,  that  from  thy  bosom  came, 
Far  over  many  a  land  and  age  has  shone, 

mingles  with  the  light  that  beams  from 
God's  own  throne. 


THE   AGES.  13 

XVIII. 

And  Rome,  thy  sterner,  younger  sister,  she 
Who  awed  the  world  with  her  imperial  frown, 
Rome  drew  the  spirit  of  her  race  from  thee, — 
The  rival  of  thy  shame  and  thy  renown. 
Yet  her  degenerate  children  sold  the  crown 
Of  earth's  wide  kingdoms  to  a  line  of  slaves ; 
Guilt  reigned,  and  wo  with  guilt,  and  plagues 

came  down, 
Till   the  north   broke  its  floodgates,  and  the 

waves 
Whelmed  the  degraded  race,  and  weltered  o'er 

their  graves. 

XIX. 

Vainly  that  ray  of  brightness  from  above, 
That  shone  around  the  Galilean  lake, 
The  light  of  hope,  the  leading  star  of  love, 
Straggled,  the  darkness  of  that  clay  to  break  ; 


14  POEMS. 

Even   its   own  faithless    guardians   strove    to 

slake, 

In  fogs  of  earth,  the  pure  ethereal  flame  ; 
And  priestly  hands,  for  Jesus'  blessed  sake, 
Were  red  with  blood,  and  charity  became, 
In  that  stern  war  of  forms,  a  mockery  and  a 

name. 

xx. 

They  triumphed,  and  less  bloody  rites  were  kept 
Within  the  quiet  of  the  convent  cell ; 
The  well-fed  inmates  pattered  prayer,  and  slept, 
And  sinned,  and  liked  their  easy  penance  well. 
Where  pleasant  was  the  spot  for  men  to  dwell, 
Amid  its  fair  broad  lands  the  abbey  lay, 
Sheltering  dark  orgies  that  were  shame  to  tell, 
And  cowled  and  barefoot  beggars  swarmed  the 

way, 
All  in  their  convent  weeds,  of  black,  and  white, 

and  gray. 


THE   AGES.  15 

XXI. 

Oh,  sweetly  the  returning  muses'  strain 
Swelled  over  that  famed  stream,  whose  gentle 

tide 

In  their  bright  lap  the  Etrurian  vales  detain, 
Sweet,  as  when  winter  storms  have  ceased  to 

chide, 

And  all  the  new-leaved  woods,  resounding  wide, 
Send  out  wild  hymns  upon  the  scented  air. 
Lo  !  to  the  smiling  Arno's  classic  side 
The  emulous  nations  of  the  west  repair, 
And  kindle  their   quenched  urns,  and   drink 

fresh  spirit  there. 

XXII. 

Still,    Heaven   deferred   the  hour  ordained  to 

rend 

From  saintly  rottenness  the  sacred  stole  ; 
And   cowl  and  worshipped    shrine    could   still 

defend 


16  POEMS. 

The  wretch  with  felon  stains  upon  his  soul ; 
And  crimes  were  set  to  sale,  and  hard  his  dole 
Who  could  not  bribe  a  passage  to  the  skies  ; 
And  vice,  beneath  the  mitre's  kind  control, 
Sinned  gaily  on,  and  grew  to  giant  size, 
Shielded  by  priestly  power,  and  watched  by 
priestly  eyes. 

XXIII. 

At  last  the  earthquake  came — the  shock,  that 

hurled 

To  dust,  in  many  fragments  dashed  and  strown, 
The  throne,  whose  roots  were  in  another  world, 
And  whose  far-stretching  shadow  awed  our  own. 
From  many  a  proud  monastic  pile,  overthrown, 
Fear-struck,  the  hooded  inmates  rushed  and  fled; 
The  web,  that  for  a  thousand  years  had  grown 
O'er  prostrate  Europe,  in  that  day  of  dread 
Crumbled  and  fell,  as  fire  dissolves  the  flaxen 

thread. 


THE   AGES.  17 

XXIV. 

The  spirit  of  that  day  is  still  awake, 
And  spreads  himself,  and  shall  not  sleep  again ; 
But  through  the  idle  mesh  of  power  shall  break 
Like  billows  o'er  the  Asian  monarch's  chain  ; 
Till  men  are  filled  with  him,  and  feel  how  vain, 
Instead  of  the  pure  heart  and  innocent  hands, 
Are  all  the  proud  and  pompous  modes  to  gain 
The  smile  of  heaven  ; — till  a  new  age  expands 
Its  white  and  holy  wings  above  the  peaceful 
lands. 

xxv. 

For  look  again  on  the  past  years  ; — behold, 
How  like  the  nightmare's  dreams  have  flown 

away 

Horrible  forms  of  worship,  that,  of  old, 
Held  o'er  the  shuddering  realms,  unquestioned 

sway  : 
See  crimes,  that  feared  not  once  the  eye  of  day, 


18  POEMS. 

Hooted  from  men,  without  a  name  or  place  ; 
See  nations  blotted  out  from  earth,  to  pay 
The  forfeit  of  deep  guilt  ; — with  glad  embrace 
The  fair  disburdened  lands  welcome  a  nobler 
race. 

XXVI. 

Thus  error's  monstrous  shapes  from  earth  are 

driven  ; 
They  fade,  they  fly,  but  truth  survives  their 

flight  ; 
Earth  has  no  shades  to  quench  that  beam  of 

heaven  ; 

Each  ray  that  shone,  in  early  time,  to  light 
The  faltering  footstep  in  the  path  of  right, 
Each  gleam  of  clearer  brightness  shed  to  aid 
In  man's  maturer  day  his  bolder  sight, 
All  blended,  like  the  rainbow's  radiant  braid, 
Pour  yet,  and  still  shall  pour,  the  blaze  that 

cannot  fade. 


THE    AGES.  19 

XXVII. 

Late,  from  this  western  shore,  that  morning 

chased 
The  deep  and  ancient  night,  which  threw  its 

shroud 
O'er   the  green  land   of  groves,  the  beautiful 

waste, 

Nurse  of  full  streams,  and  lifter-up  of  proud 
Sky-mingling  mountains  that  o'erlook  the  cloud. 
Erewhile,  where  yon  gay  spires  their  brightness 

rear, 
Trees  waved,  and  the  brown  hunter's  shouts 

were  loud 

Amid  the  forest  ;  and  the  bounding  deer 
Fled  at  the  glancing  plume,  and  the  gaunt 

wolf  yelled  near, 

XXVIII. 

And  where  his  willing  waves  yon  bright  blue  bay 
Sends  up,  to  kiss  his  decorated  brim, 


20  POEMS. 

And  cradles,  in  his  soft  embrace,  the  gay 
Young  group  of  grassy  islands  born  of  him, 
And  crowding  nigh,  or  in  the  distance  dim, 
Lifts  the  white  throng  of  sails,  that  bear  or  bring 
The  commerce  of  the  world  ; — with  tawny  limb, 
And  belt  and  beads  in  sunlight  glistening, 
The  savage  urged  his  skiff  like  wild  bird  on  the 
wing. 

XXIX. 

Then  all  this  youthful  paradise  around, 
And  all  the  broad  and  boundless  mainland,  lay 
Cooled  by  the  interminable  wood,  that  frowned 
O'er  mount  and  vale,  where  never  summer  ray 
Glanced,  till  the  strong  tornado  broke  his  way 
Through  the  gray  giants  of  the  sylvan  wild  ; 
Yet  many  a  sheltered  glade,  with  blossoms  gay, 
Beneath  the  showery  sky  and  sunshine  mild, 
Within  the  shaggy  arms  of  that  dark  forest 
smiled. 


THE    AGES.  21 

XXX. 

There  stood  the  Indian  hamlet,  there  the  lake 
Spread  its  blue  sheet  that  flashed  with  many 

an  oar, 
Where  the  brown  otter  plunged  him  from  the 

brake, 

And  the  deer  drank :  as  the  light  gale  flew  o'er, 
The  twinkling  maize-field  rustled  on  the  shore ; 
And  while  that  spot,  so  wild,  and  lone,  and  fair, 
A  look  of  glad  and  guiltless  beauty  wore, 
And  peace  was  on  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 
The  warrior  lit  the  pile,  and  bound  his  captive 
.  there  : 

XXXI. 

Not  unavenged  ;  the  foeman,  from  the  wood, 
Beheld  the  deed,  and  when  the  midnight  shade 
Was  stillest,  gorged  his  battle-axe  with  blood  ; 
All  died — the  wailing  babe — the  shrieking  maid — 


22  POEMS. 

And  in  the  flood  of  fire  that  scathed  the  glade, 
The  roofs  went  down ;  but  deep  the  silence  grew, 
When  on  the  dewy  woods  the  day-beam  played ; 
No  more  the  cabin  smokes  rose  wreathed  and 

blue, 
And   ever,  by  their  lake,  lay  moored  the  bark 

canoe. 

XXXII. 

Look  now  abroad — another  race  has  filled 
These  populous  borders — wide  the  wood  recedes, 
And  towns  shoot  up,  and  fertile  realms  are  tilled ; 
The  land  is  full  of  harvests  and  green  meads  ; 
Streams  numberless,  that  many  a  fountain  feeds, 
Shine,    disembowered,    and   give   to   sun   and 

breeze 

Their  virgin  waters  ;  the  full  region  leads 
New  colonies  forth,  that  toward  the  western  seas 
Spread,  like  a  rapid  flame  among  the  autumnal 

trees. 


THE   AGES.  23 

XXXIII. 

Here  the  free  spirit  of  mankind,  at  length 
Throws  its  last  fetters  off  ;  and  who  shall  place 
A  limit  to  the  giant's  unchained  strength, 
Or  curb  his  swiftness  in  the  forward  race  ? 
On,  like  the  comet's  way  through  infinite  space 
Stretches  the  long  untravelled  path  of  light, 
Into  the  depths  of  ages  :  we  may  trace, 
Afar,  the  brightening  glory  of  its  flight, 
Till  the  receding  rays  are  lost  to  human  sight. 

xxxiv. 

Europe  is  given  a  prey  to  sterner  fates, 
And  writhes  in  shackles  ;  strong  the  arms 

that  chain 

To  earth  her  struggling  multitude  of  states  ; 
She  too  is  strong,  and  might  not  chafe  in  vain 
Against  them,  but  might  cast  to  earth  the 

train 


24  POEMS. 

That  trample  her,  and  break  their  iron  net. 
Yes,  she  shall  look  on  brighter  days  and  gain 
The  meed  of  worthier  deeds  ;  the  moment  set 
To  rescue  and  raise  up,  draws  near — but  is  not 
yet. 

XXXV. 

But  thou,  my  country,  thou  shalt  never  fall, 
Save  with  thy  children — thy  maternal  care, 
Thy  lavish  love,  thy  blessings  showered  on  all — 
These  are  thy  fetters — seas  and  stormy  air 
Are  the  wide  barrier  of  thy  borders,  where, 
Among  thy  gallant  sons  that  guard  thee  well, 
Thou  laugh'st  at  enemies  :   who  shall  then  de 
clare 

The  date  of  thy  deep-founded  strength,  or  tell 
How  happy,  in  thy  lap,  the  sons  of  men  shall 
dwell? 


THANATOPSIS. 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language  ;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness  ere  he  is  aware.   When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart  ; — 
2 


26  POEMS. 

Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 

To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around — 

Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air, — 

Comes  a  still  voice — Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 

The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 

In  all  his  course  ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 

Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 

Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall 

claim 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  for  ever  with  the  elements, 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The 

oak 
Shall  send   his   roots  abroad,  and   pierce  thy 

mould. 


THANATOPSIS.  27 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone, — nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.     The  hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun  ;    the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between  ; 
The  venerable  woods  ;  rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green  ;  and,  poured 

round  all, 

Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven. 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 
The  o-lobe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 


\ 


28  POEMS. 

That  slumber  in  its  bosom. — Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  traverse  Barca's  desert  sands, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregan,  and  hears  no  sound, 
Save   his   own   dashings — yet — the    dead    are 

there  : 

And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  reign  there  alone. 
So  shalt  thou  rest,  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?     All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favourite  phantom  ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall 

come, 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long 

train 


THANATOPSIS.  29 

Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, 

The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who 

goes 

In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron,  and  maid, 
And   the   sweet   babe,   and    the    gray-headed 

man, — 

Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 
By  those,  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and 

soothed 

By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


THE  YELLOW  VIOLET. 

WHEN  beechen  buds  begin  to  swell, 
And  woods  the  blue-bird's  warble  know, 

The  yellow  violet's  modest  bell 

Peeps  from  the  last  year's  leaves  below. 

Ere  russet  fields  their  green  resume, 
Sweet  flower,  I  love,  in  forest  bare, 

To  meet  thee,  when  thy  faint  perfume 
Alone  is  in  the  virgin  air. 


THE    YELLOW    VIOLET.  31 

Of  all  her  train,  the  hands  of  Spring 
First  plant  thee  in  the  watery  mould, 

And  I  have  seen  thee  blossoming 
Beside  the  snow-bank's  edges  cold. 

Thy  parent  sun,  who  bade  thee  view 
Pale  sides,  and  chilling  moisture  sip, 

Has  bathed  thee  in  his  own  bright  hue, 
And  streaked  with  jet  thy  glowing  lip. 

Yet  slight  thy  form,  and  low  thy  seat, 
And  earthward  bent  thy  gentle  eye, 

Unapt  the  passing  view  to  meet, 

When  loftier  flowers  are  flaunting  nigh. 

Oft,  in  the  sunless  April  day, 

Thy  early  smile  has  stayed  my  walk  ; 

But  midst  the  gorgeous  blooms  of  May, 
I  passed  thee  on  thy  humble  stalk. 


32  POEMS. 

So  they,  who  climb  to  wealth,  forget 
The  friends  in  darker  fortunes  tried  ; 

I  copied  them — but  I  regret 

That  I  should  ape  the  ways  of  pride. 

And  when  again  the  genial  hour 
Awakes  the  painted  tribes  of  light, 

I'll  not  overlook  the  modest  flower 
That  made  the  woods  of  April  bright. 


INSCRIPTION  FOE  THE  ENTEANCE 
TO  A  WOOD. 

STKANGEB,  if  thou  hast  learned  a  truth  which 

needs 

No  school  of  long  experience,  that  the  world 
Is  full  of  guilt  and  misery,  and  hast  seen 
Enough  of  all  its  sorrows,  crimes,  and  cares, 
To  tire  thee  of  it,  enter  this  wild  wood 
And  view  the  haunts  of  Nature.     The  calm 

shade 

Shall  bring  a  kindred  calm,  and  the  sweet  breeze 
VOL.  i. — 2° 


34  POEMS. 

That  makes  the  green  leaves  dance,  shall  waft 

a  balm 

To  thy  sick  heart.     Thou  wilt  find  nothing  here 
Of  all  that  pained  thee  in  the  haunts  of  men 
And  made  thee  loathe  thy  life.     The  primal 

curse 

Fell,  it  is  true,  upon  the  unsinning  earth, 
But  not  in  vengeance.    God  hath  yoked  to  guilt 
Her  pale    tormentor,   misery.       Hence   these 

shades 

Are  still  the  abodes  of  gladness  ;  the  thick  roof 
Of  green  and  stirring  branches  is  alive 
And  musical  with  birds,  that  sing  and  sport 
In  wantonness  of  spirit ;  while  below 
The  squirrel,  with  raised  paws  and  form  erect, 
Chirps  merrily.    Throngs  of  insects  in  the  shade 
Try  their  thin  wings  and  dance  in  the  warm 

beam 
That  waked  them  into  life.     Even  the  green 

trees 


INSCRIPTION.  35 

Partake  the  deep  contentment ;  as  they  bend 
To  the  soft  winds,  the  sun  from  the  blue  sky 
Looks  in  and  sheds  a  blessing  on  the  scene. 
Scarce  less  the  cleft-born  wild-flower  seems  to 

enjoy 

Existence,  than  the  winged  plunderer 
That  sucks  its  sweets.     The  mossy  rocks  them 
selves, 
And  the  old  and  ponderous  trunks  of  prostrate 

trees 

That  lead  from  knoll  to  knoll  a  causey  rude, 
Or  bridge  the  sunken  brook,  and  their  dark 

roots, 

With  all  their  earth  upon  them,  twisting  high, 
Breathe  fixed  tranquillity.     The  rivulet 
Sends  forth  glad  sounds,  and  tripping  o'er  its 

bed 

Of  pebbly  sands,  or  leaping  down  the  rocks, 
Seems,  with  continuous  laughter,  to  rejoice 
In  its  own  being.     Softly  tread  the  marge, 


36  POEMS. 

Lest  from  her  midway  perch  thou  scare  the  wren 
That  dips  her  bill  in  water.     The  cool  wind, 
That  stirs  the  stream  in  play,  shall  come  to 

thee, 

Like  one  that  loves  thee  nor  will  let  thee  pass 
Ungreeted,  and  shall  give  its  light  embrace. 


SONG-. 

SOON  as  the  glazed  and  gleaming  snow 
Keflects  the  day-dawn  cold  and  clear, 

The  hunter  of  the  west  must  go 
In  depth  of  woods  to  seek  the  deer. 

His  rifle  on  his  shoulder  placed, 

His  stores  of  death  arranged  with  skill, 

His  moccasins  and  snow-shoes  laced, — 
Why  lingers  he  beside  the  hill  ? 


38  POEMS. 

Far,  in  the  dim  and  doubtful  light, 
Where  woody  slopes  a  valley  leave, 

He  sees  what  none  but  lover  might, 
The  dwelling  of  his  Genevieve. 

And  oft  he  turns  his  truant  eye, 
And  pauses  oft,  and  lingers  near  ; 

But  when  he  marks  the  reddening  sky, 
He  bounds  away  to  hunt  the  deer. 


TO  A  WATEKFOWL. 

WHITHEE,  midst  falling  dew, 
While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of 

day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way  ? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  seen  against  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 


40  POEMS. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean  side  1 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast, — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air, — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost./ 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end  ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows  ;    reeds  shall 
bend, 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 


TO    A    WATERFOWL.  41 

Thou'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form  ;  yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

'  He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 
Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain 

flight, 

In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 
Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


GREEN  RIVER. 

WHEN  breezes  are  soft  and  skies  are  fair, 
I  steal  an  hour  from  study  and  care, 
And  hie  me  away  to  the  woodland  scene, 
Where  wanders  the  stream  with  waters  of  green, 
As  if  the  bright  fringe  of  herbs  on  its  brink 
Had  given  their  stain  to  the  wave  they  drink  ; 
And  they,  whose  meadows  it  murmurs  through, 
Have  named  the  stream  from  its  own  fair  hue. 

Yet  pure  its  waters — its  shallows  are  bright 
With  colored  pebbles  and  sparkles  of  light, 


GREEN    RIVER.  43 

And  clear  the  depths  where  its  eddies  play, 
And  dimples  deepen  and  whirl  away, 
And  the  plane-tree's  speckled  arms  o'ershoot 
The  swifter  current  that  mines  its  root, 
Through  whose  shifting  leaves,  as  you  walk  the 

hill, 

The  quivering  glimmer  of  sun  and  rill 
With  a  sudden  flash  on  the  eye  is  thrown, 
Like  the  ray  that  streams  from  the  diamond- 
stone. 

Oh,  loveliest  there  the  spring  days  come, 
With  blossoms,  and  birds,  and  wild  bees'  hum  ; 
The  flowers  of  summer  are  fairest  there, 
And  freshest  the  breath  of  the  summer  air  ; 
And  sweetest  the  golden  autumn  day 
In  silence  and  sunshine  glides  away. 


Yet,  fair  as  thou  art,  thou  shunnest  to  glide, 
Beautiful  stream  !  by  the  village  side  ; 


44  POEMS. 

But  windest  away  from   haunts  of  men, 
To  quiet  valley  and  shaded  glen  ; 
And  forest,  and  meadow,  and  slope  of  hill, 
Around  thee,  are  lonely,  lovely,  and  still. 
Lonely,  save  when,  by  thy  rippling  tides, 
From  thicket  to  thicket  the  angler  glides  ; 
Or  the  simpler  comes  with  basket  and  book, 
For  herbs  of  power  on  thy  banks  to  look  ; 
Or  haply,  some  idle  dreamer,  like  me, 
To  wander,  and  muse,  and  gaze  on  thee. 
Still — save  the  chirp  of  birds  that  feed 
On  the  river  cherry  and  seedy  reed, 
And  thy  own  wild  music  gushing  out 
With  mellow  murmur  and  fairy  shout, 
From  dawn  to  the  blush  of  another  day, 
Like  traveller  singing  along  his  way. 


That  fairy  music  I  never  hear, 
Nor  gaze  on  those  waters  so  green  and  clear, 


GKEEN    RIVEK.  45 

And  mark  them  winding  away  from  sight, 
Darkened  with  shade  or  flashing  with  light, 
While  o'er  them  the  vine  to  its  thicket  clings, 
And  the  zephyr  stoops  to  freshen  his  wings, 
But  I  wish  that  fate  had  left  me  free 
To  wander  these  quiet  haunts  with  thee, 
Till  the  eating  cares  of  earth  should  depart, 
And  the  peace  of  the  scene  pass  into  my  heart ; 
And  I  envy  thy  stream  as  it  glides  along, 
Through  its  beautiful  banks  in  a  trance  of  song. 

Though  forced  to  drudge  for  the  dregs  of  men, 
And  scrawl  strange  words  with  the  barbarous  pen, 
And  mingle  among  the  jostling  crowd, 
Where  the  sons  of  strife  are  subtle  and  loud — 
I  often  come  to  this  quiet  place, 
To  breathe  the  airs  that  ruffle  thy  face, 
And  gaze  upon  thee  in  silent  dream, 
For  in  thy  lonely  and  lovely  stream 
An  image  of  that  calm  life  appears 
That  won  my  heart  in  my  greener  years. 


A  WINTER  PIECE. 

THE  time  has  been  that  these  wild  solitudes, 
Yet  beautiful  as  wild,  were  trod  by  me 
Oftener  than  now  ;  and  when  the  ills  of  life 
Had  chafed  my  spirit — when  the  unsteady  pulse 
Beat  with  strange  flutterings — 1  would  wander 

forth 

And  seek  the  woods.     The  sunshine  on  my  path 
Was  to  me  as  a  friend.     The  swelling  hills, 
The  quiet  dells  retiring  far  between, 
With  gentle  invitation  to  explore 


A    WINTER    PIECE.  47 

Their  windings,  were  a  calm  society 

That  talked  with  me  and  soothed  me.     Then 

the  chant 

Of  birds,  and  chime  of  brooks,  and  soft  caress 
Of  the  fresh  sylvan  air,  made  me  forget 
The  thoughts  that  broke  my  peace,  and  I  began 
To  gather  simples  by  the  fountain's  brink, 
And  lose  myself  in  day-dreams.     While  I  stood 
In  nature's  loneliness,  I  was  with  one 
With  whom  I  early  grew  familiar,  one 
Who  never  had  a  frown  for  me,  whose  voice 
Never  rebuked  me  for  the  hours  I  stole 
From  cares  I  loved  not,  but  of  which  the  world 
Deems  highest,  to  converse  with  her.     When 

shrieked 
The   bleak    November  winds,   and    smote  tho 

woods, 
And  the  brown  fields  were  herbless,  and  the 

shades, 
That  met  above  the  merry  rivulet, 


48  POEMS. 

Were  spoiled,  I  sought,  I  loved  them  still  ; 

they  seemed 

Like  old  companions  in  adversity. 
Still  there  was  beauty  in  my  walks ;  the  brook, 
Bordered  with  sparkling  frost-work,  was  as  gay 
As  with  its  fringe  of  summer  flowers.     Afar, 
The  village  with  its  spires,  the  path  of  streams, 
And  dim  receding  valleys,  hid  before 
By  interposing  trees,  lay  visible 
Through  the  bare  grove,  and  my  familiar  haunts 
Seemed  new  to  me.     Nor  was  I  slow  to  come 
Among  them,  when  the  clouds,  from  their  still 

skirts, 

Had  shaken  down  on  earth  the  feathery  snow, 
And  all  was  white.     The  pure  keen  air  abroad, 
Albeit  it  breathed  no  scent  of  herb,  nor  heard 
Love-call  of  bird  nor  merry  hum  of  bee, 
Was  not  the  air  of  death.     Bright  mosses  crept 
Over  the  spotted  trunks,  and  the  close  buds, 
That  lay  along  the  boughs-,  instinct  with  life, 


A    WINTER    PIECE.  49 

Patient,  and  waiting  the  soft  breath  of  Spring, 
Feared  not  the  piercing  spirit  of  the  North. 
The  snow-hird  twittered  on  the  beechen  bough, 
And  'neath  the  hemlock,  whose  thick  branches 

bent 

Beneath  its  bright  cold  burden,  and  kept  dry 
A  circle,  on  the  earth,  of  withered  leaves, 
The  partridge  found  a  shelter.     Through  the 

snow 

The  rabbit  sprang  away.     The  lighter  track 
Of  fox,  and  the  racoon's  broad  path  were  there, 
Crossing  each  other.     From  his  hollow  tree, 
The  squirrel  was  abroad,  gathering  the  nuts 
Just  fallen,  that  asked  the  winter  cold  and  sway 
Of  winter  blast,  to  shake  them  from  their  hold. 

But   winter    has    yet   brighter   scenes, — he 

boasts 

Splendors  beyond  what  gorgeous  Summer  knows; 
Or  Autumn  with  his  many  fruits,  and  woods 
VOL.  i. — 3 


50  POEMS. 

All  flushed  with  many  hues.     Come  when  the 

rains 
Have  glazed  the  snow,  and  clothed  the  trees 

with  ice  ; 

While  the  slant  sun  of  Fehruary  pours 
Into  the  bowers  a  flood  of  light.     Approach  ! 
The  incrusted  surface  shall  upbear  thy  steps, 
And  the  broad  arching  portals  of  the  grove 
Welcome  thy  entering.   Look !  the  massy  trunks 
Are  cased  in  the  pure  crystal ;  each  light  spray, 
Nodding  and  tinkling  in  the  breath  of  heaven, 
Is  studded  with  its  trembling  water-drops, 
That  glimmer  with  an  amethystine  light. 
But  round  the  parent  stem  the  long  low  boughs 
Bend,  in  a  glittering  ring,  and  arbors  hide 
The  glassy  floor.     Oh !  you  might  deem  the  spot 
The  spacious  cavern  of  some  virgin  mine, 
Deep  in  the  womb  of  earth — where  the  gems 

grow, 
And  diamonds  put  forth  radiant  rods  and  bud 


A    WINTER   PIECE.  51 

With  amethyst  and  topaz — and  the  place 
Lit  up,  most  royally,  with  the  pure  beam 
That  dwells  in  them.     Or  haply  the  vast  hall 
Of  fairy  palace,  that  outlasts  the  night, 
And  fades  not  in  the  glory  of  the  sun  ; — 
Where  crystal  columns  send  forth  slender  shafts 
And  crossing  arches  ;  and  fantastic  aisles 
Wind  from  the  sight  in  brightness,  and  are 

lost 

Among  the  crowded  pillars.     Kaise  thine  eye  ; 
Thou  seest  no  cavern  roof,  no  palace  vault ; 
There  the  blue  sky  and  the  white  drifting  cloud 
Look  in.     Again  the  wildered  fancy  dreams 
Of  spouting  fountains,  frozen  as  they  rose, 
And  fixed,  with  all  their  branching  jets,  in  air, 
And  all  their  sluices  sealed.     All,  all  is  light  ; 
Light  without  shade.     But  all  shall  pass  away 
With  the  next  sun.     From  numberless  vast 

trunks, 
Loosened,  the  crashing  ice  shall  make  a  sound 


52  POEMS. 

Like  the  far  roar  of  rivers,  and  the  eve 

Shall  close  o'er  the  brown  woods  as  it  was  wont. 

And  it  is  pleasant,  when  the  noisy  streams 
Are  just  set  free,  and  milder  suns  melt  off 
The  plashy  snow,  save  only  the  firm  drift 
In  the  deep  glen  or  the  close  shade  of  pines, — 
'Tis  pleasant  to  "behold  the  wreaths  of  smoke 
Eoll  up  among  the  maples  of  the  hill, 
Where  the  shrill  sound  of  youthful  voices  wakes 
The  shriller  echo,  as  the  clear  pure  lymph, 
That   from   the  wounded  trees,  in  twinkling 

drops, 

Falls,  mid  the  golden  brightness  of  the  morn, 
Is  gathered  in  with  brimming  pails,  and  oft, 
Wielded  by  sturdy  hands,  the  stroke  of  axe 
Makes  the  woods  ring.     Along  the  quiet  air, 
Come  and  float  calmly  off  the  soft  light  clouds, 
Such  as  you  see  in  summer,  and  the  winds 
Scarce  stir  the  branches.  Lodged  in  sunny  cleft, 


A   WINTER   PIECE.  53 

Where  the  cold  breezes  come  not,  blooms  alone 
The  little  wind-flower,  whose  just  opened  eye 
Is  blue  as  the  spring  heaven  it  gazes  at — 
Startling  the  loiterer  in  the  naked  groves 
With  unexpected  beauty,  for  the  time 
Of  blossoms  and  green  leaves  is  yet  afar. 
And  ere  it  comes,  the  encountering  winds  shall 

oft 

Muster  their  wrath  again,  and  rapid  clouds 
Shade  heaven,  and  bounding  on  the  frozen  earth 
Shall  fall  their  volleyed  stores,  rounded  like  hail 
And  white  like  snow,  and  the  loud  North  again 
Shall  buffet  the  vexed  forest  in  his  rage. 


THE  WEST  WIND. 

BENEATH  the  forest's  skirt  I  rest, 

Whose  branching  pines  rise  dark  and  high, 
And  hear  the  breezes  of  the  West 

Among  the  thread-like  foliage  sigh. 

Sweet  Zephyr  !  why  that  sound  of  woe  1 
Is  not  thy  home  among  the  flowers  ? 

Do  not  the  bright  June  roses  blow, 
To  meet  thy  kiss  at  morning  hours  ? 


THE    WEST    WIND.  55 

And  lo  !  thy  glorious  realm  outspread — 
Yon  stretching  valleys,  green  and  gay, 

And  yon  free  hill-tops,  o'er  whose  head 
The  loose  white  clouds  are  borne  away. 

And  there  the  full  broad  river  runs, 
And  many  a  fount  wells  fresh  and  sweet 

To  cool  thee  when  the  mid-day  suns 

Have  made  thee  faint  beneath  their  heat. 

Thou  wind  of  joy,  and  youth,  and  love  ; 

Spirit  of  the  new-wakened  year  ! 
The  sun  in  his  blue  realm  above 

Smooths  a  bright  path  when  thou  art  here. 

In  lawns  the  murmuring  bee  is  heard, 
The  wooing  ring-dove  in  the  shade  ; 

On  thy  soft  breath,  the  new-fledged  bird 
Takes  wing,  half  happy,  half  afraid. 


56  POEMS. 

Ah  !  thou  art  like  our  wayward  race  ; — 
When  not  a  shade  of  pain  or  ill 

Dims  the  bright  smile  of  Nature's  face, 
Thou  lov'st  to  sigh  and  murmur  still. 


THE  BURIAL-PLACE. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

EREWHILE,  on  England's  pleasant  shores,  our 

sires 
Left   not   their   churchyards    unadorned  with 

shades 

Or  blossoms  ;  and  indulgent  to  the  strong 
And  natural  dread  of  man's  last  home,  the  grave, 
Its  frost  and  silence — they  disposed  around, 
To  soothe  the  melancholy  spirit  that  dwelt 
Too  sadly  on  life's  close,  the  forms  and  hues 
VOL.  i.— 3* 


58  POEMS. 

Of  vegetable  beauty.     There  the  yew, 
Green  even  amid  the  snows  of  winter,  told 
Of  immortality,  and  gracefully 
The  willow,  a  perpetual  mourner,  drooped  j 
And  there  the  gadding  woodbine  crept  about, 
And  there  the  ancient  ivy.     From  the  spot 
Where  the  sweet  maiden,  in  her  blossoming 

years 

Cut  off,  was  laid  with  streaming  eyes,  and  hands 
That  trembled  as  they  placed  her  there,  the  rose 
Sprung  modest,  on  bowed  stalk,  and  better 

spoke 

Her  graces,  than  the  proudest  monument. 
There  children  set  about  their  playmate's  grave 
The  pansy.     On  the  infant's  little  bed, 
Wet  at  its  planting  with  maternal  tears, 
Emblem  of  early  sweetness,  early  death, 
Nestled  the  lowly  primrose.     Childless  dames, 
And  maids  that  would  not  raise  the  reddened 

eye— 


THE   BURIAL-PLACE.  59 

Orphans,  from  whose  young  lids  the  light  of  joy 
Fled  early, — silent  lovers,  who  had  given 
All  that  they  lived  for  to  the  arms  of  earth, 
Came  often,  o'er  the  recent  graves  to  strew 
Their  offerings,  rue,  and  rosemary,  and  flowers. 

The  pilgrim  bands  who  passed  the  sea  to  keep 
Their  Sabbaths  in  the  eye  of  Glod  alone, 
In  his  wide  temple  of  the  wilderness, 
Brought  not  these  simple  customs  of  the  heart 
With  them.    It  might  be,  while  they  laid  their 

dead 

By  the  vast  solemn  skirts  of  the  old  groves, 
And  the  fresh  virgin  soil  poured  forth  strange 

flowers 

About  their  graves  ;  and  the  familiar  shades 
Of  their  own  native  isle  and  wonted  blooms 
And  herbs  were  wanting,  which  the  pious  hand 
Might  plant  or  scatter  there,  these  gentle  rites 


60  POEMS. 

Passed   out    of  use.      Now   they  are  scarcely 

known, 

And  rarely  in  our  borders  may  you  meet 
The  tall  larch,  sighing  in  the  burying-place, 
Or  willow,  trailing  low  its  boughs  to  hide 
The  gleaming  marble.     Naked  rows  of  graves 
And  melancholy  ranks  of  monuments 
Are  seen  instead,  where  the  coarse  grass,  be 
tween, 

Shoots  up  its  dull  green  spikes,  and  in  the  wind 
Hisses,  and  the  neglected  bramble  nigh, 
Offers  its  berries  to  the  schoolboy's  hand, 
In  vain — they  grow  too  near  the  dead.    Yet  here, 
Nature,  rebuking  the  neglect  of  man, 
Plants  often,  by  the  ancient  mossy  stone, 
The  brier  rose,  and  upon  the  broken  turf 
That  clothes  the  fresher  grave,  the  strawberry 

plant 

Sprinkles  its  swell  with  blossoms,  and  lays  forth 
Her  ruddy,  pouting  fruit,     *     *     «     *     * 


"  BLESSED  ABE  THEY  THAT  MOUBN." 

f  OH,  deem  not  they  are  blest  alone 

Whose  lives  a  peaceful  tenor  keep  ; 
The  Power  who  pities  man,  has  shown 
A  blessing  for  the  eyes  that  weep. 


The  light  of  smiles  shall  fill  again 
The  lids  that  overflow  with  tears  ; 

And  weary  hours  of  woe  and  pain 
Are  promises  of  happier  years. 


62  POEMS. 

There  is  a  day  of  sunny  rest 

For  every  dark  and  troubled  night ; 

And  grief  may  bide  an  evening  guest, 
But  joy  shall  come  with  early  light. 

And  thou,  who,  o'er  thy  friend's  low  bier, 
Sheddest  the  bitter  drops  like  rain, 

Hope  that  a  brighter,  happier  sphere 
Will  give  him  to  thy  arms  again. 

Nor  let  the  good  man's  trust  depart, 
Though  life  its  common  gifts  deny, — 

Though  with  a  pierced  and  bleeding  heart, 
And  spurned  of  men,  he  goes  to  die. 

For  God  hath  marked  each  sorrowing  day 
And  numbered  eveiy  secret  tear, 

And  heaven's  long  age  of  bliss  shall  pay 
For  all  his  children  suffer  here. 


"NO   MAN   KNOWETH   HIS  SEPUL 
CHRE." 

WHEN  he,  who,  from  the  scourge  of  wrong, 
Aroused  the  Hebrew  tribes  to  fly, 

Saw  the  fair  region,  promised  long, 
And  bowed  him  on  the  hills  to  die  ; 

God  made  his  grave,  to  men  unknown, 
Where  Moab's  rocks  a  vale  infold, 

And  laid  the  aged  seer  alone 

To  slumber  while  the  world  grows  old. 


64  POEMS. 

Thus  still,  whene'er  the  good  and  just 
Close  the  dim  eye  on  life  and  pain, 

Heaven  watches  o'er  their  sleeping  dust 
Till  the  pure  spirit  comes  again. 

Though  nameless,  trampled,  and  forgot, 
His  servant's  humble  ashes  lie, 

Yet  God  has  marked  and  sealed  the  spot, 
To  call  its  inmate  to  the  sky. 


A  WALK  AT  SUNSET. 

WHEN  insect  wings  are  glistening  in  the  beam 
Of  the  low  sun,  and  mountain-tops  are  bright, 

Oh,  let  me,  by  the  crystal  valley-stream, 
Wander  amid  the  mild  and  mellow  light  ; 

And  while  the  wood-thrush  pipes  his  evening  lay, 

Give  me  one  lonely  hour  to  hymn  the  setting  day. 

Oh,  sun  !  that  o'er  the  western  mountains  now 
Go'st  down  in  glory  ?  ever  beautiful 

And  blessed  is  thy  radiance,  whether  thou 
Colorest  the  eastern  heaven  and  night-mist 
cool, 


66  POEMS. 

Till  the  bright  day-star  vanish,  or  on  high 
Climbest   and   streamest  thy  white  splendors 
from  mid  sky. 

Yet,  loveliest  are  thy  setting  smiles,  and  fair, 

Fairest  of  all  that  earth  beholds,  the  hues 

That  live  among  the  clouds,  and  flush  the  air, 

Lingering  and  deepening  at  the  hour  of  dews. 
Then  softest  gales  are  breathed,  and  softest 

heard 

The  plaining  voice  of  streams,  and  pensive  note 
of  bird. 

They  who  here  roamed,  of  yore,  the  forest  wide, 

Felt,  by  such  charm,  their  simple  bosoms  won ; 

They  deemed  their  quivered  warrior,  when  he 

died, 

Went   to  bright  isles  beneath   the  setting 
sun: 


A   WALK    AT    SUNSET.  67 

Where  winds  are  aye  at  peace,  and  skies  are  fair, 
And  purple-skirted  clouds  curtain  the  crimson 
air. 

So,  with  the  glories  of  the  dying  day, 

Its  thousand  trembling  lights  and  changing 

hues, 
The  memory  of  the  brave  who  passed  away 

Tenderly  mingled  ; — fitting  hour  to  muse 
On  such   grave  theme,  and  sweet  the  dream 

that  shed 

Brightness  and  beauty  round  the  destiny  of  the 
dead. 

For  ages,  on  the  silent  forests  here, 

Thy  beams  did  fall  before  the  red  man  came 

To  dwell  beneath  them  ;    in  their  shade  the 

deer 
Fed,  and  feared  not  the  arrow's  deadly  aim. 


POEMS. 


Nor  tree  was  felled  in  all  that  world  of  woods, 
Save  by  the  beaver's  tooth,  or  winds,  or  rush  of 
floods. 


Then  came  the  hunter  tribes,  and  thou  didst 

look, 

For  ages  on  their  deeds  in  the  hard  chase, 
And  well-fought  wars  ;    green  sod  and   silver 

brook 

Took  the  first  stain  of  blood  ;  before  thy  face 
The  warrior  generations  came  and  passed, 
And  glory  was  laid  up  for  many  an  age  to  last. 


Now  they  are  gone,  gone  as  thy  setting  blaze 
Goes  down  the  west,  while  night  is  press 
ing  on, 

And  with  them  the  old  tale  of  better  days, 
And  trophies  of  remembered  power,  are  gone. 


A    WALK    AT    SUNSET.  69 

Yon  field  that  gives  the  harvest,  where  the 

plough 
Strikes  the  white  bone,  is  all  that  tells  their 

story  now. 


I  stand  upon  their  ashes  in  thy  beam, 

The  offspring  of  another  race,  I  stand, 
Beside  a  stream  they  loved,  this  valley  stream ; 
And  where  the  night-fires  of  the  quivered 

band 
Showed   the   gray  oak  by  fits,  and  war-song 

rung, 

I  teach  the  quiet  shades  the  strains  of  this  new 
tongue. 


Farewell  !  but  thou  shalt    come   again  !    thy 

light 
Must  shine  on  other  changes,  and  behold 


*70  POEMS. 

The  place  of  the  thronged  city  still  as  night — 
States  fallen — new  empires  built  upon  the 

old- 

But  never  shalt  thou  see  these  realms  again 
Darkened  by  boundless  groves,  and  roamed  by 

savage  men. 


HYMN  TO  DEATH. 

OH  !  could  I  hope  the  wise  and  pure  in  heart 
Might  hear  my  song  without  a  frown,  nor  deem 
My  voice  unworthy  of  the  theme  it  tries, — 
I  would  take  up  the  hymn  to  Death,  and  say 
To  the  grim  power,  The  world  hath  slandered 

thee 
And  mocked  thee.     On  thy  dim  and  shadowy 

brow 

They  place  an  iron  crown,  and  call  thee  king 
Of  terrors,  and  the  spoiler  of  the  world, 
Deadly  assassin,  that  strik'st  down  the  fair, 
The  loved,    the  good — that  breathest  on  the 

lights 


72  POEMS. 

Of  virtue  set  along  the  vale  of  life, 
And  they  go  out  in  darkness.     I  am  come, 
Not  with  reproaches,  not  with  cries  and  prayers, 
Such  as  have  stormed  thy  stern,  insensible  ear 
From  the  beginning.     I  am  come  to  speak 
Thy  praises.     True  it  is  that  I  have  wept 
Thy  conquests,  and  may  weep  them  yet  again ; 
And  thou  from  some  I  love  wilt  take  a  life 
Dear  to  me  as  my  own.     Yet  while  the  spell 
Is  on  my  spirit,  and  I  talk  with  thee 
In  sight  of  all  thy  trophies,  face  to  face, 
Meet  is  it  that  my  voice  should  utter  forth 
Thy  nobler  triumphs  ;  I  will  teach  the  world 
To  thank  thee.     Who  are  thine  accusers  ! — 

Who? 

The  living  ! — they  who  never  felt  thy  power, 
And  know  thee  not.     The  curses  of  the  wretch 
Whose  crimes  are  ripe,  his  sufferings  when  thy 

hand 
Is  on  him,  and  the  hour  he  dreads  is  come, 


HYMN    TO    DEATH.  73 

Are  writ  among  thy  praises.     But  the  good — 
Does  he  whom  thy  kind   hand    dismissed   to 

peace, 

Upbraid  the  gentle  violence  that  took  off 
His  fetters,  and  unbarred  his  prison  cell  ? 


Kaise  then  the  hymn  to  Death.     Deliverer  ! 
God  hath  anointed  thee  to  free  the  oppressed 
And  crush  the  oppressor.     When  the  armed 

chief, 

The  conqueror  of  nations,  walks  the  world, 
And  it  is  changed  beneath  his  feet,  and  all 
Its  kingdoms  melt  into  one  mighty  realm — 
Thou,  while  his  head  is  loftiest  and  his  heart 
Blasphemes,  imagining  his  own  right  hand 
Almighty,  thou  dost  set  thy  sudden  grasp 
Upon  him,  and  the  links  of  that  strong  chain 
Which   bound   mankind   are  crumbled  ;    thou 
dost  break 
VOL,  i. — 4 


74  POEMS. 

Sceptre  and  crown,  and  beat  his  throne  to  dust. 
Then  the  earth  shouts  with  gladness,  and  her 

tribes 

Gather  within  their  ancient  bounds  again. 
Else  had  the  mighty  of  the  olden  time, 
Nimrod,  Sesostris,  or  the  youth  who  feigned 
His  birth  from  Libyan  Ammon,  smitten  yet 
The  nations  with  a  rod  of  iron,  and  driven 
The  chariot  o'er  our  necks.     Thou  dost  avenge, 
In  thy  good  time,  the  wrongs  of  those  who  know 
No  other  friend.     Nor  dost  thou  interpose 
Only  to  lay  the  sufferer  asleep, 
Where  he  who  made  him  wretched  troubles  not 
His  rest — thou  dost  strike  down  his  tyrant  too. 
Oh,  there  is  joy  when   hands   that   held  the 

scourge 

Drop  lifeless,  and  the  pitiless  heart  is  cold. 
Thou  too  dost  purge  from  earth  its  horrible 
And  old  idolatries  ; — from  the  proud  fanes 
Each  to  his  grave  their  priests  go  out,  till  none 


HYMN    TO    DEATH.  75 

Is  left  to  teach  their  worship  ;  then  the  fires 
Of  sacrifice  are  chilled,  and  the  green  moss 
O'ercreeps  their  altars  ;  the  fallen  images 
Cumber  the  weedy  courts,  and  for  loud  hymns. 
Chanted  by  kneeling  multitudes,  the  wind 
Shrieks  in  the  solitary  aisles.     When  he 
Who  gives  his  life  to  guilt,  and  laughs  at  all 
The  laws  that  God  or  man  has  made,  and  round 
Hedges   his   seat  with   power,   and   shines   in 

wealth, — 

Lifts  up  his  atheist  front  to  scoff  at  Heaven, 
And  celebrates  his  shame  in  open  day, 
Thou,  in  the  pride  of  all  his  crimes,  cutt'st  off 
The  horrible  example.     Touched  by  thine 
The  extortioner's  hard  hand  foregoes  the  gold 
Wrung  from  the  o'er-worn  poor.     The  perjurer 
Whose  tongue  was  lithe,  e'en  now,  and  voluble 
Against  his  neighbor's  life,  and  he  who  laughed 
And  leaped  for  joy  to  see  a  spotless  fame 
Blasted  before  his  own  foul  calumnies, 


76  POEMS. 

Are  smit  with  deadly  silence.     He,  who  sold 
His  conscience  to  preserve  a  worthless  life, 
Even  while  he  hugs  himself  on  his  escape, 
Trembles,  as,  doubly  terrible,  at  length, 
Thy  steps  o'ertake  him,  and  there  is  no  time 
For  parley — nor  will  bribes  unclench  thy  grasp. 
Oft,  too,  dost  thou  reform  thy  victim,  long 
Ere  his  last  hour.     And  when  the  reveller, 
Mad  in  the  chase  of  pleasure,  stretches  on, 
And  strains  each  nerve,  and  clears  the  path  of 

life 
Like  wind,  thou  point'st  him  to  the  dreadful 

goal, 

And  shak'st  thy  hour-glass  in  his  reeling  eye, 
And  check'st  him  in  mid  course.     Thy  skeleton 

hand 

Shows  to  the  faint  of  spirit  the  right  path, 
And  he  is  warned,  and  fears  to  step  aside. 
Thou  sett'st  between  the  ruffian  and  his  crime 
Thy  ghastly  countenance,  and  his  slack  hand 


HYMN    TO    DEATH.  77 

Drops  the  drawn  knife.     But,  oh,  most  fear 
fully 
Dost  thou  show  forth  Heaven's  justice,  when 

thy  shafts 

Drink  up  the  ebbing  spirit — then  the  hard 
Of  heart  and  violent  of  hand  restores 
The  treasure  to  the  friendless  wretch  he  wronged. 
Then  from  the  writhing  bosom  thou  dost  pluck 
The  guilty  secret  ;  lips,  for  ages  sealed, 
Are  faithless  to  the  dreadful  trust  at  length, 
And  give  it  up  ;  the  felon's  latest  breath 
Absolves  the  innocent  man  who  bears  his  crime  ; 
The  slanderer,  horror-smitten,  and  in  tears, 
Eecalls  the  deadly  obloquy  he  forged 
To  work  his  brother's  ruin.     Thou  dost  make 
Thy  penitent  victim  utter  to  the  air 
The  dark  conspiracy  that  strikes  at  life, 
And  aims   to  whelm   the  laws  ;    ere  yet   the 

hour 
Is  come,  and  the  dread  sign  of  murder  given. 


78  POEMS. 

Thus,  from  the  first  of  time,  hast  thou  been 

found 

On  virtue's  side  ;  the  wicked,  but  for  thee, 
Had  been  too  strong  for  the  good  ;  the  great  of 

earth 
Had  crushed  the  weak  for  ever.     Schooled  in 

guile 

For  ages,  while  each  passing  year  had  brought 
Its  baneful  lesson,  they  had  filled  the  world 
With  their  abominations  ;  while  its  tribes, 
Trodden  to  earth,  imbruted,  and  despoiled, 
Had  knelt  to  them  in  worship  ;  sacrifice 
Had  smoked  on  many  an  altar,  temple  roofs 
Had  echoed  with  the  blasphemous  prayer  and 

hymn  : 

But  thou,  the  great  reformer  of  the  world, 
Tak'st  off  the  sons  of  violence  and  fraud 
In  their  green  pupilage,  their  lore  half  learned — 
Ere  guilt  had  quite  o'errun  the  simple  heart 
God  gave  them  at  their  birth,  and  blotted  out 


HYMN    TO    DEATH.  79 

His  image.     Thou  dost  mark  them  flushed  with 

hope, 

As  on  the  threshold  of  their  vast  designs 
Doubtful   and   loose   they  stand,  and   strik'st 

them  down. 


Alas  !  I  little  thought  that  the  stern  power 
Whose  fearful  praise  I  sung,  would  try  me  thus 
Before  the  strain  was  ended.     It  must  cease  — 
For  he  is  in  his  grave  who  taught  my  youth 
The  art  of  verse,  and  in  the  bud  of  life 
Offered  me  to  the  muses.     Oh,  cut  off 
Untimely  !  when  thy  reason  in  its  strength, 
Ripened  by  years  of  toil  and  studious  search, 
And  watch  of  Nature's  silent  lessons,  taught 
Thy  hand  to  practise  best  the  lenient  art 
To  which  thou  gavest  thy  laborious  days, 
And,  last,  thy  life.     And,  therefore,  when  the 
earth 


80  POEMS. 

Received  thee,  tears  were  in  unyielding  eyes 
And  on  hard  cheeks,  and  they  who  deemed  thy 

skill 
Delayed  their  death-hour,  shuddered  and  turned 

pale 
When  thou  wert  gone.     This  faltering  verse, 

which  thou 

Shalt  not,  as  wont,  o'erlook,  is  all  I  have 
To  offer  at  thy  grave — this — and  the  hope 
To  copy  thy  example,  and  to  leave 
A  name  of  which  the  wretched  shall  not  think 
As  of  an  enemy's,  whom  they  forgive 
As  all  forgive  the  dead.     Eest,  therefore,  thou 
Whose  early  guidance  trained  my  infant  steps — 
Eest,  in  the  bosom  of  God,  till  the  "brief  sleep 
Of  death  is  over,  and  a  happier  life 
Shall  dawn  to  waken  thine  insensible  dust. 

Now  thou  art  not — and  yet  the  men  whose 
guilt 


HYMN    TO    DEATH.  81 

Has  wearied   Heaven   for   vengeance — he  who 

bears 

False  witness — he  who  takes  the  orphan's  bread, 
And  robs  the  widow — he  who  spreads  abroad 
Polluted  hands  in  mockery  of  prayer, 
Are  left  to  cumber  earth.     Shuddering  I  look 
On  what  is  written,  yet  I  blot  not  out 
The  desultory  numbers  ;  let  them  stand, 
The  record  of  an  idle  revery. 


VOL.  i. — 4° 


THE   MASSACRE  AT   SCIO. 

WEEP  not  for  Scio's  children  slain  ; 

Their  blood,  by  Turkish  falchions  shed, 
Sends  not  its  cry  to  Heaven  in  vain 

For  vengeance  on  the  murderer's  head. 

Though  high  the  warm  red  torrent  ran 
Between  the  flames  that  lit  the  sky, 

Yet,  for  each  drop,  an  armed  man 
Shall  rise,  to  free  the  land,  or  die. 


THE   MASSACKE   AT   SCIO.  83 

And  for  each  corpse,  that  in  the  sea 
Was  thrown,  to  feast  the  scaly  herds, 

A  hundred  of  the  foe  shall  be 

A  banquet  for  the  mountain  birds. 

Stern  rites  and  sad,  shall  Greece  ordain 
To  keep  that  day,  along  her  shore, 

Till  the  last  link  of  slavery's  chain 
Is  shivered,  to  be  worn  no  more. 


THE   INDIAN   GIRL'S  LAMENT. 

AN  Indian  girl  was  sitting  where 
Her  lover,  slain  in  battle,  slept  ; 

Her  maiden  veil,  her  own  black  hair, 
Came  down  o'er  eyes  that  wept  ; 

And  wildly,  in  her  woodland  tongue, 

This  sad  and  simple  lay  she  sung  : 

I've  pulled  away  the  shrubs  that  grew 
Too  close  above  thy  sleeping  head, 

And  broke  the  forest  boughs  that  threw 
Their  shadows  o'er  thy  bed, 

That,  shining  from  the  sweet  south-west, 

The  sunbeams  might  rejoice  thy  rest. 


THE   INDIAN    GIKI/S   LAMENT.  85 

"  It  was  a  weary,  weary  road 

That  led  thee  to  the  pleasant  coast, 
Where  thou,  in  his  serene  abode, 

Hast  met  thy  father's  ghost  ; 
Where  everlasting  autumn  lies 
On  yellow  woods  and  sunny  skies. 

"  'Twas  I  the  broidered  mocsen  made, 

That  shod  thee  for  that  distant  land  ; 
'Twas  I  thy  bow  and  arrows  laid 

Beside  thy  still  cold  hand  ; 
Thy  bow  in  many  a  battle  bent, 
Thy  arrows  never  vainly  sent. 

"  With  wampum  belts  I  crossed  thy  breast, 
And  wrapped  thee  in  the  bison's  hide, 

And  laid  the  food  that  pleased  thee  best, 
In  plenty,  by  thy  side, 

And  decked  thee  bravely,  as  became 

A  warrior  of  illustrious  name. 


86  POEMS. 

"  Thou'rt  happy  now,  for  thou  hast  passed 

The  long  dark  journey  of  the  grave, 
And  in  the  land  of  light,  at  last, 

Hast  joined  the  good  and  brave  ; 
Amid  the  flushed  and  balmy  air, 
The  bravest  and  the  loveliest  there, 

"  Yet,  oft  to  thine  own  Indian  maid 

Even  there  thy  thoughts  will   earthward 

stray, — 
To  her  who  sits  where  thou  wert  laid, 

And  weeps  the  hours  away, 
Yet  almost  can  her  grief  forget, 
To  think  that  thou  dost  love  her  yet. 

"  And  thou,  by  one  of  those  still  lakes 

That  in  a  shining  cluster  lie, 
On  which  the  south  wind  scarcely  breaks 

The  image  of  the  sky, 
A  bower  for  thee  and  me  hast  made 
Beneath  the  many-colored  shade. 


THE   INDIAN    GIKI/S   LAMENT.  87 

"  And  thou  dost  wait  and  watch  to  meet 

My  spirit  sent  to  join  the  blest, 
And,  wondering  what  detains  my  feet 

From  the  bright  land  of  rest, 
Dost  seem,  in  every  sound,  to  hear 
The  rustling  of  my  footsteps  near  " 


ODE  FOK  AN  AGRICULTURAL  CELE 
BRATION. 

FAR  back  in  the  ages, 

The  plough  with  wreaths  was  crowned  ; 
The  hands  of  kings  and  sages 

Entwined  the  chaplet  round  ; 
Till  men  of  spoil  disdained  the  toil 

By  which  the  world  was  nourished, 
And  dews  of  blood  enriched  the  soil 

Where  green  their  laurels  flourished  : 
— Now  the  world  her  fault  repairs — 

The  guilt  that  stains  her  story  ; 
And  weeps  her  crimes  amid  the  cares 

That  formed  her  earliest  glory. 


ODE.  89 

The  proud  throne  shall  crumble, 

The  diadem  shall  wane, 
The  tribes  of  earth  shall  humble 

The  pride  of  those  who  reign  ; 
And  War  shall  lay  his  pomp  away  ; — - 

The  fame  that  heroes  cherish, 
The  glory  earned  in  deadly  fray 

Shall  fade,  decay,  and  perish. 
Honor  waits,  o'er  all  the  Earth, 

Through  endless  generations, 
The  art  that  calls  her  harvests  forth, 

And  feeds  the  expectant  nations. 


EIZPAH. 


And  he  delivered  them  into  the  hands  of  the  Gibeonites,  and  they  hang 
ed  them  in  the  hill  before  the  Lord ;  and  they  fell  all  seven  together,  and 
were  put  to  death  In  the  days  of  the  harvest,  in  the  first  days,  in  the  begin 
ning  of  barley -harvest. 

And  Bizpah,  the  daughter  of  Aiah,  took  sackcloth,  and  spread  it  for  her 
upon  the  rock,  from  the  beginning  of  harvest  until  the  water  dropped  up 
on  them  out  of  heaven,  and  suffered  neither  the  birds  of  the  air  to  rest 
upon  them  by  day,  nor  the  beasts  of  the  field  by  night. 

2  SAMUEL,  xxi.  10. 


HEAR  what  the  desolate  Kizpah  said, 
As  on  Gibeah's  rocks  she  watched  the  dead. 
The  sons  of  Michal  before  her  lay, 
And  her  own  fair  children,  dearer  than  they  ; 


R1ZPAH.  91 

By  a  death  of  shame  they  all  had  died, 

And  were  stretched  on  the  bare  rock,  side  by 

side ; 

And  Rizpah,  once  the  loveliest  of  all 
That  bloomed  and  smiled  in  the  court  of  Saul, 
All  wasted  with  watching  and  famine  now, 
And  scorched  by  the  sun  her  haggard  brow, 
Sat  mournfully  guarding  their  corpses  there, 
And  murmured  a  strange  and  solemn  air ; 
The  low,  heart-broken  and  wailing  strain 
Of  a  mother  that  mourns  her  children  slain  : 

"  I  have  made  the  crags  my  home  and  spread 
On  their  desert  backs  my  sackloth  bed  ; 
I  have  eaten  the  bitter  herb  of  the  rocks, 
And  drunk  the  midnight  dew  in  my  locks  ; 
I  have  wept  till  I  could  not  weep,  and  the  pain 
Of  my  burning  eyeballs  went  to  my  brain. 
Seven  blackened  corpses  before  me  lie, 
In  the  blaze  of  the  sun  and  the  winds  of  the  sky. 


92  POEMS. 

I   have   watched   them   through   the   burning 

day, 

And  driven  the  vulture  and  raven  away  ; 
And  the  cormorant  wheeled  in  circles  round, 
Yet  feared  to  light  on  the  guarded  ground. 
And  when  the  shadows  of  twilight  came, 
I  have  seen  the  hyena's  eyes  of  flame, 
And  heard  at  my  side  his  stealthy  tread, 
But  aye  at  my  shout  the  savage  fled  : 
And  I  threw  the  lighted  brand  to  fright 
The  jackal  and  wolf  that  yelled  in  the  night. 

"  Ye  were  foully  murdered,  my  hapless  sons, 
By  the  hands  of  wicked  and  cruel  ones  ; 
Ye  fell,  in  your  fresh  and  blooming  prime, 
All  innocent,  for  your  father's  crime. 
He  sinned — but  he  paid  the  price  of  his  guilt 
When  his  blood  by  a  nameless  hand  was  spilt ; 

When  he  strove  with  the  heathen  host  in  vain, 

/ 

And  fell  with  the  flower  of  his  people  slain, 


RIZPAH.  93 

And  the    sceptre  his  children's  hands  should 

sway 
From  his  injured  lineage  passed  away. 

"  But  I  hoped  that  the  cottage  roof  would  be 
A  safe  retreat  for  my  sons  and  me  ; 
And  that  while  they  ripened  to  manhood  fast, 
They  should  wean  my  thoughts  from  the  woes 

of  the  past. 

And  my  bosom  swelled  with  a  mother's  pride, 
As  they  stood  in  their  beauty  and  strength  by 

my  side, 

Tall  like  their  sire,  with  the  princely  grace 
Of  his  stately  form,  and  the  bloom  of  his  face. 

"  Oh,  what  an  hour  for  a  mother's  heart, 
When  the  pitiless  ruffians  tore  us  apart  ! 
When   I  clasped   their  knees   and  wept   and 

prayed, 
And  struggled  and  shrieked  to  Heaven  for  aid, 


94  POEMS. 

And  clung  to  my  sons  with  desperate  strength, 
Till  the  murderers  loosed  my  hold  at  length, 
And  bore  me  breathless  and  faint  aside, 
In  their  iron  arms,  while  my  children  died. 
They  died — and  the  mother  that  gave  them  birth 
Is  forbidden  to  cover  their  bones  with  earth. 

"  The  barley  harvest  was  nodding  white, 
When  my  children  died  on  the  rocky  height, 
And  the  reapers  were  singing  on  hill  and  plain, 
When  I  came  to  my  task  of  sorrow  and  pain. 
But  now  the  season  of  rain  is  nigh, 
The  sun  is  dim  in  the  thickening  sky, 
And  the  clouds  in  sullen  darkness  rest 
Where  he  hides  his  light  at  the  doors  of  the  west. 
I  hear  the  howl  of  the  wind  that  brings 
The  long  drear  storm  on  its  heavy  wings  ; 
But  the  howling  wind  and  the  driving  raiu 
Will  beat  my  houseless  head  in  vain  : 
I  shall  stay,  from  my  murdered  sons  to  scare 
The  beasts  of  the  desert,  and  fowls  of  air." 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  FUNERAL. 

I  SAW  an  aged  man  upon  his  bier, 

His  hair  was  thin  and  white,  and  on  his  brow 
A  record  of  the  cares  of  many  a  year  ; — 

Cares  that  were  ended  and  forgotten  now. 
And  there  was  sadness  round,  and  faces  bowed, 
And  woman's  tears  fell  fast,  and  children  wailed 
aloud. 

Then  rose  another  hoary  man  and  said, 

In  faltering  accents,  to,  that  weeping  train, 


96  POEMS. 

"  Why  mourn  ye  that  our  aged  friend  is  dead  ? 

Ye  are  not  sad  to  see  the  gathered  grain, 
Nor  when  their  mellow  fruit  the  orchards  cast, 
Nor  when  the   yellow  woods  shake  down  the 
ripened  mast. 

"  Ye  sigh  not  when  the  sun,  his  course  fulfilled, 
His  glorious  course,  rejoicing  earth  and  sky, 

In  the  soft  evening,  when  the  winds  are  stilled, 
Sinks  where  his  islands  of  refreshment  lie, 

And  leaves  the  smile  of  his  departure  spread 

O'er  the  warm-colored  heaven  and  ruddy  moun 
tain  head. 

"  Why  weep  ye  then  for  him,  who,  having  won 
The  bound  of  man's  appointed  years,  at  last, 

Life's  blessings  all  enjoyed,  life's  labors  done, 
Serenely  to  his  final  rest  has  passed  ; 

While  the  soft  memory  of  his  virtues,  yet, 

Lingers  like  twilight  hues,  when  the  bright  sun 
is  set  ? 


THE    OLD    MAN'S   FUNERAL.  97 

"  His  youth  was  innocent ;  his  riper  age 

Marked  with  some  act  of  goodness  every  day ; 
And  watched  by  eyes  that  loved  him,  calm,  and 

sage, 

Faded  his  last  declining  years  away. 
Cheerful  he  gave  his  being  up,  and  went 
To  share  the  holy  rest  that  waits  a  life  well 
s;>ent. 

"  That  life  was  happy  ;  every  day  he  gave 
Thanks  for  the  fair  existence  that  Was  his  ; 

For  a  sick  fancy  made  him  not  her  slave, 
To  mock  him  with  her  phantom  miseries. 

No  chronic  tortures  racked  his  aged  limb, 

For  luxury  and  sloth  had  nourished  none  for 
him. 


"  And  I  am  glad  that  he  has  lived  thus  long, 
And  glad  that  he  has  gone  to  his  reward  ; 
VOL.  i. — 5 


98  POEMS. 

Nor  can  I  deem  that  nature  did  him  wrong, 

Softly  to  disengage  the  vital  cord. 
For  when  his  hand  grew  palsied,  and  his  eye 
Dark  with  the  mists  of  age,  it  was  his  time  to 
die." 


THE  RIVULET. 

THIS  little  rill,  that  from  the  springs 
Of  yonder  grove  its  current  brings, 
Plays  on  the  slope  a  while,  and  then 
Gloes  prattling  into  groves  again 
Oft  to  its  warbling  waters  drew 
My  little  feet,  when  life  was  new. 
When  woods  in  early  green  were  dressed, 
And  from  the  chambers  of  the  west 
The  warmer  breezes,  travelling  out, 
Breathed  the  new  scent  of  flowers  about, 


100  POEMS. 

My  truant  steps  from  home  would  stray, 
Upon  its  grassy  side  to  play, 
List  the  brown  thrasher's  vernal  hymn, 
And  crop  the  violet  on  its  brim, 
With  blooming  cheek  and  open  brow, 
As  young  and  gay,  sweet  rill  as  thou. 

And  when  the  days  of  boyhood  came, 
And  I  had  grown  in  love  with  fame, 
Duly  I  sought  thy  banks,  and  tried 
My  first  rude  numbers  by  thy  side. 
Words  cannot  tell  how  bright  and  gay 
The  scenes  of  life  before  me  lay. 
Then  glorious  hopes,  that  now  to  speak 
Would  bring  the  blood  into  my  cheek, 
Passed  o'er  me  ;  and  I  wrote,  on  high, 
A  name  I  deemed  should  never  die. 

Years  change  thee  not.     Upon  yon  hill 
The  tall  old  maples,  verdant  still, 


THE    RIVULET.  101 

Yet  tell,  in  grandeur  of  decay, 
How  swift  the  years  have  passed  away, 
Since  first,  a  child,  and  half  afraid, 
I  wandered  in  the  forest  shade. 
Thou,  ever  joyous  rivulet, 
Dost  dimple,  leap,  and  prattle  yet  ; 
And  sporting  with  the  sands  that  pave 
The  windings  of  thy  silver  wave, 
And  dancing  to  thy  own  wild  chime, 
Thou  laughest  at  the  lapse  of  time. 
The  same  sweet  sounds  are  in  my  ear 
My  early  childhood  loved  to  hear  ; 
As  pure  thy  limpid  waters  run  ; 
As  bright  they  sparkle  to  the  sun  ; 
As  fresh  and  thick  the  bending  ranks 
Of  herbs  that  line  thy  oozy  banks  ; 
The  violet  there,  in  soft  May  dew, 
Comes  up,  as  modest  and  as  blue  ; 
As  green  amid  thy  current's  stress, 
Floats  the  scarce-rooted  watercress  ; 


102  POEMS. 

And  the  brown  ground-bird,  in  thy  glen, 
Still  chirps  as  merrily  as  then. 

Thou  changest  not — but  I  am  changed, 
Since  first  thy  pleasant  banks  I  ranged  ; 
And  the  grave  stranger,  come  to  see 
The  play-place  of  his  infancy, 
Has  scarce  a  single  trace  of  him 
Who  sported  once  upon  thy  brim. 
The  visions  of  my  youth  are  past — 
Too  bright,  too  beautiful  to  last. 
I've  tried  the  world — it  wears  no  more 
The  coloring  of  romance  it  wore. 
Yet  well  has  Nature  kept  the  truth 
She  promised  to  my  earliest  youth. 
The  radiant  beauty  shed  abroad 
On  all  the  glorious  works  of  Q-od, 
Shows  freshly,  to  my  sobered  eye? 
Each  charm  it  wore  in  days  gone  by. 


THE   RIVULET.  103 

A  few  brief  years  shall  pass  away, 
And  I,  all  trembling,  weak^  and  gray, 
Bowed  to  the  earth,  which  waits  to  fold 
My  ashes  in  the  embracing  mould, 
(If  haply  the  dark  will  of  fate 
Indulge  my  life  so  long  a  date,) 
May  come  for  the  last  time  to  look 
Upon  my  childhood's  favorite  brook. 
Then  dimly  on  my  eye  shall  gleam 
The  sparkle  of  thy  dancing  stream  ; 
And  faintly  on  my  ear  shall  fall 
Thy  prattling  current's  merry  call ; 
Yet  shalt  thou  flow  as  glad  and  bright 
As  when  thou  met'st  my  infant  sight. 

And  I  shall  sleep — and  on  thy  side, 
As  ages  after  ages  glide, 
Children  their  early  sports  shall  try, 
And  pass  to  hoary  age  and  die. 


104  POEM8. 

But  thou,  unchanged  from  year  to  year, 
Gayly  shalt  play  and  glitter  here  ; 
Amid  young  flowers  and  tender  grass 
Thy  endless  infancy  shalt  pass  ; 
And,  singing  down  thy  narrow  glen, 
Shalt  mock  the  fading  race  of  men. 


MAKCH. 

THE  stormy  March  is  come  at  last, 

With  wind,  and  cloud,  and  changing  skies, 
I  hear  the  rushing  of  the  blast, 

That  through  the  snowy  valley  flies. 

Ah,  passing  few  are  they  who  speak, 
Wild  stormy  month  !  in  praise  of  thee  ; 

Yet,  though  thy  winds  are  loud  and  bleak, 
Thou  art  a  welcome  month  to  me. 
VOL.  i. — 5* 


106  POEMS. 

For  thou,  to  northern  lands,  again 
The  glad  and  glorious  sun  dost  bring, 

And  thou  hast  joined  the  gentle  train 
And  wear'st  the  gentle  name  of  Spring. 

And,  in  thy  reign  of  blast  and  storm, 
Smiles  many  a  long,  bright,  sunny  day, 

When  the  changed  winds  are  soft  and  warm, 
And  heaven  puts  on  the  blue  of  May. 

Then  sing  aloud  the  gushing  rills  : 
From  winter's  durance  just  set  free, 

And  brightly  leaping  down  the  hills, 
Begin  their  journey  to  the  sea. 

The  year's  departing  beauty  hides 
Of  wintry  storms  the  sullen  threat  ; 

But  in  thy  sternest  frown  abides 
A  look  of  kindly  promise  yet. 


MARCH.  107 

Thou  bring'st  the  hope  of  those  calm  skies, 
And  that  soft  time  of  sunny  showers, 

When  the  wide  bloom,  on  earth  that  lies, 
Seems  of  a  brio-hter  world  than  ours. 


CONSUMPTION. 

AY,  thou  art  for  the  grave  ;  thy  glances  shine 

Too  brightly  to  shine  long  ;  another  Spring 
Shall  deck  her  for  men's  eyes,  but  not  for  thine — 

Sealed  in  a  sleep  which  knows  no  wakening. 
The  fields  for  thee  have  no  medicinal  leaf, 

And  the  vexed  ore  no  mineral  of  power  ; 
And  they  who  love  thee  wait  in  anxious  grief 

Till  the  slow  plague  shall  bring  the  fatal  hour. 
Glide  softly  to  thy  rest  then;  Death  should  come, 

Gently,  to  one  of  gentle  mould  like  thee, 


CONSUMPTION.  109 

As  light  winds  wandering  through   groves   of 

bloom 

Detach  the  delicate  blossom  from  the  tree. 
Close  thy  sweet  eyes,  calmly,  and  without  pain  ; 
And  we  will  trust  in  God  to  see  thee  yet  again. 


AN  INDIAN  STORY. 

"  I  KNOW  where  the  timid  fawn  abides 

In  the  depths  of  the  shaded  dell, 
Where  the  leaves  are  broad  and  the  thicket  hides, 
With  its  many  stems  and  its  tangled  sides, 

From  the  eye  of  the  hunter  well. 

"  I  know  where  the  young  May  violet  grows, 

In  its  lone  and  lowly  nook, 
On  the  mossy  bank,  where  the  larch-tree  throws 
Its  broad  dark  boughs,  in  solemn  repose, 

Far  over  the  silent  brook. 


AN   INDIAN    STORY.  Ill 

"  And  that  timid  fawn  starts  not  with  fear 

When  I  steal  to  her  secret  bower  ; 
And  that  young  May  violet  to  me  is  dear, 
And  I  visit  the  silent  streamlet  near, 
To  look  on  the  lovely  flower." 

Thus  Maquon  sings  as  he  lightly  walks 
To  the  hunting  ground  on  the  hills  ; 
'Tis  a  song  of  his  maid  of  the  woods  and  rocks, 
With  her  bright  black  eyes  and  long  black  locks, 
And  voice  like  the  music  of  rills. 

He  goes  to  the  chase — but  evil  eyes 

Are  at  watch  in  the  thicker  shades  ; 
For  she  was  lovely  that  smiled  on  his  sighs, 
And  he  bore,  from  a  hundred  lovers,  his  prize, 
The  flower  of  the  forest  maids. 

The  boughs  in  the  morning  wind  are  stirred, 
And  the  woods  their  song  renew, 


112  POEMS. 

With  the  early  carol  of  many  a  bird, 
And  the  quickened  tune  of  the  streamlet  heard 
Where  the  hazels  trickle  with  dew. 

And    Maquon    has    promised    his   dark-haired 

maid, 

Ere  eve  shall  redden  the  sky, 
A  good  red  deer  from  the  forest  shade, 
That  bounds  with  the  herd  through  grove  and 

glade, 
At  her  cabin-door  shall  lie. 

The  hollow  woods,  in  the  setting  suii, 
Ring  shrill  with  the  fire-bird's  lay  ; 
And  Maquon' s  sylvan  labors  are  done, 
And  his  shafts  are  spent,  but  the  spoil  they  won 
He  bears  on  his  homeward  way. 

He  stops  near  his  bower — his  eye  perceives 
Strange  traces  along  the  ground — 


AN   INDIAN    STORY.  113 

At  once  to  the  earth  his  burden  he  heaves, 
He   breaks   through   the   veil   of  boughs   and 

leaves, 
And  gains  its  door  with  a  bound. 

But  the  vines  are  torn  on  its  walls  that  leant, 

And  all  from  the  young  shrubs  there 
By  struggling  hands  have  the  leaves  been  rent, 
And  there  hangs  on  the  sassafras,  broken  and 

bent, 
One  tress  of  the  well-known  hair. 

But  where  is  she  who,  at  this  calm  hour, 

Ever  watched  his  coming  to  see  ? 
She  is  not  at  the  door,  nor  yet  in  the  bower  ; 
He  calls — but  he  only  hears  on  the  flower 

The  hum  of  the  laden  bee. 

It  is  not  a  time  for  idle  grief, 
Nor  a  time  for  tears  to  flow  ; 


114  POEMS. 

The  horror  that  freezes  his  limbs  is  brief — 
He  grasps  his  war-axe  and  bow,  and  a  sheaf 
Of  darts  made  sharp  for  the  foe. 

And  he  looks  for  the  print  of  the  ruffian's  feet, 

Where  he  bore  the  maiden  away  ; 
And  he  darts  on  the  fatal  path  more  fleet 
Than  the  blast  that  hurries  the  vapor  and  sleet 
O'er  the  wild  November  day. 

'Twas  early  summer  when  Maquon's  bride 

Was  stolen  away  from  his  door  ; 
But  at  length  the  maples  in  crimson  are  dyed, 
And  the  grape  is  black  on  the  cabin  side, — 

And  she  smiles  at  his  hearth  once  more. 

But  far  in  the  pine-grove,  dark  and  cold, 

Where  the  yellow  leaf  falls  not, 
Nor  the  autumn  shines  in  scarlet  and  gold, 
There  lies  a  hillock  of  fresh  dark  mould, 

In  the  deepest  gloom  of  the  spot. 


AN   INDIAN    STOKY.  115 

And  the  Indian  girls,  that  pass  that  way, 

Point  out  the  ravisher's  grave  ; 
"  And  how  soon  to  the  bower  she  loved,"  they 

say, 
"  Eeturned  the  maid  that  was  borne  away 

From  Maquon,  the  fond  and  the  brave." 


SUMMER   WIND. 

IT  is  a  sultry  day  ;  the  sun  has  drunk 
The  dew  that  lay  upon  the  morning  grass  ; 
There  is  no  rustling  in  the  lofty  elm 
That  canopies  my  dwelling,  and  its  shade 
Scarce  cools  me.     All  is  silent  save  the  faint 
And  interrupted  murmur  of  the  bee, 
Settling  on  the  sick  flowers,  and  then  again 
Instantly  on  the  wing.     The  plants  around 
Feel  the  too  potent  fervors  ;  the  tall  maize 
Rolls  up  its  long  green  leaves  ;  the  clover  droopy 


SUMMER   WIND.  117 

Its  tender  foliage,  and  declines  its  "blooms. 
But  far,  in  the  fierce  sunshine,  tower  the  hills, 
With  all  their  growth  of  woods,  silent  and  stern ; 
As  if  the  scorching  heat  and  dazzling  light 
Were  but  an  element  they  loved.  Bright  clouds, 
Motionless  pillars  of  the  brazen  heaven, — 
Their  bases  on  the  mountains — their  white  tops 
Shining  in  the  far  ether — fire  the  air 
With  a  reflected  radiance,  and  make  turn 
The  gazer's  eyes  away.     For  me,  I  lie 
Languidly  in  the  shade,  where  the  thick  turf, 
Yet  virgin  with  the  kisses  of  the  sun, 
Eetains  some  freshness,  and  I  woo  the  wind 
That  still  delays  his  coming.     Why  so  slow, 
Gentle  and  voluble  spirit  of  the  air  ? 
Oh,  come  and  breathe  upon  the  fainting  earth 
Coolness  and  life.     Is  it  that  in  his  caves 
He  hears  me  ?     See,  on  yonder  woody  ridge, 
The  pine  is  bending  his  proud  top,  and  now 
Among  the  nearer  groves,  chestnut  and  oak 


118  POEMS. 

Are  tossing  their  green  boughs  about.  He  comes ! 
Lo,  where  the  grassy  meadow  runs  in  waves  ! 
The  deep  distressful  silence  of  the  scene 
Breaks  up  with  mingling  of  unnumbered  sounds 
And  universal  motion.     He  is  come, 
Shaking  a  shower  of  blossoms  from  the  shrubs, 
And  bearing  on  their  fragrance  ;  and  he  brings 
Music  of  birds,  and  rustling  of  young  boughs, 
And  sound  of  swaying  branches,  and  the  voice 
Of  distant  waterfalls.     All  the  green  herbs 
Are  stirring  in  his  breath  ;  a  thousand  flowers, 
By  the  road-side  and  the  borders  of  the  brook, 
Nod  gayly  to  each  other  ;  glossy  leaves 
Are  twinkling  in  the  sun,  as  if  the  dew 
Were  on  them  yet,  and  silver  waters  break 
Into  small  waves  and  sparkle  as  he  comes. 


AN  INDIAN  AT  THE    BURIAL    PLACE 
OF  HIS  FATHERS. 

IT  is  the  spot  I  came  to  seek, — 
My  fathers'  ancient  burial  place 

Ere  from  these  vales,  ashamed  and  weak, 
Withdrew  our  wasted  race. 

It  is  the  spot — I  know  it  well — 

Of  which  our  old  traditions  tell. 

For  here  the  upland  bank  sends  out 

A  ridge  toward  the  river  side  ; 
I  know  the  shaggy  hills  about, 


120  POEMS. 

The  meadows  smooth  and  wide. 
The  plains,  that,  toward  the  southern  sky, 
Fenced  east  and  west  by  mountains  lie. 

A  white  man  gazing  on  the  scene, 
Would  say  a  lovely  spot  was  here, 

And  praise  the  lawns  so  fresh  and  green, 
Between  the  hills  so  sheer. 

I  like  it  not — I  would  the  plain 

Lay  in  its  tall  old  groves  again. 

The  sheep  are  on  the  slopes  around, 
The  cattle  in  the  meadows  feed, 

And  laborers  turn  the  crumbling  ground, 
Or  drop  the  yellow  seed, 

And  prancing  steeds,  in  trappings  gay, 

Whirl  the  bright  chariot  o'er  the  way. 

Methinks  it  were  a  nobler  sight 

To  see  these  vales  in  woods  arrayed, 


AN   INDIAN    AT    THE    BURIAL   PLACE.       121 

Their  summits  in  the  golden  light, 

Their  trunks  in  grateful  shade. 
And  herds  of  deer,  that  bounding  go 
O'er  hills  and  prostrate  trees  below. 


And  then  to  mark  the  lord  of  all, 
The  forest  hero,  trained  to  wars, 

Quivered  and  plumed,  and  lithe  and  tall. 
And  seamed  with  glorious  scars, 

Walk  forth,  amid  his  reign,  to  dare 

The  wolf,  and  grapple  with  the  bear. 


This  bank,  in  which  the  dead  were  laid, 
Was  sacred  when  its  soil  was  ours  ; 

Hither  the  silent  Indian  maid 

Brought  wreaths  of  beads  and  flowers 

And  the  gay  chief  and  gifted  seer 

Worshipped  the  God  of  thunders  here. 


122  POEMS. 

But  now  the  wheat  is  green  and  high, 
On  clods  that  hid  the  warrior's  breast, 

And  scattered  in  the  furrows  lie 
The  weapons  of  his  rest  ; 

And  there,  in  the  loose  sand,  is  thrown 

Of  his  large  arm  the  mouldering  bone. 

Ah,  little  thought  the  strong  and  brave 
Who  bore  their  lifeless  chieftain  forth — 

Or  the  young  wife,  that  weeping  gave 
Her  first-born  to  the  earth, 

That  the  pale  race,  who  waste  us  now, 

Among  their  bones  should  guide  the  plough. 

They  waste  us — ay — like  April  snow 
In  the  warm  noon,  we  shrink  away  ; 

And  fast  they  follow,  as  we  go 
Towards  the  setting  day, — 

Till  they  shall  fill  the  land,  and  we 

Are  driven  into  the  western  sea. 


AN   INDIAN    AT    THE    BURIAL    PLACE.       123 

But  I  behold  a  fearful  sign, 

To  which  the  white  men's  eyes  are  blind  ; 
Their  race  may  vanish  hence,  like  mine, 

And  leave  no  trace  behind, 
Save  ruins  o'er  the  region  spread, 
And  the  white  stones  above  the  dead. 

Before  these  fields  were  shorn  and  tilled, 
Full  to  the  brim  our  rivers  flowed  ; 

The  melody  of  waters  filled 
The  fresh  and  boundless  wood ; 

And  torrents  dashed  and  rivulets  played, 

And  fountains  spouted  in  the  shade. 

Those  grateful  sounds  are  heard  no  more, 
The  springs  are  silent  in  the  sun  ; 

The  rivers,  by  the  blackened  shore, 
With  lessening  current  run  ; 

The  realm  our  tribes  are  crushed  to  get 

May  be  a  barren  desert  yet. 


SONG. 

DOST  thou  idly  ask  to  hear 

At  what  gentle  seasons 
Nymphs  relent,  when  lovers  near 

Press  the  tenderest  reasons  ? 
Ah,  they  give  their  faith  too  oft 

To  the  careless  wooer  ; 
Maidens'  hearts  are  always  soft : 

Would  that  men's  were  truer. 

Woo  the  fair  one,  when  around 
Early  birds  are  singing  ; 


SONG.  125 

When,  o'er  all  the  fragrant  ground, 

Early  herbs  are  springing  : 
When  the  brookside,  bank,  and  grove, 

All  with  blossoms  laden, 
Shine  with  beauty,  breathe  of  love — 

Woo  the  timid  maiden. 

Woo  her  when,  with  rosy  blush, 

Summer  eve  is  sinking  ; 
When,  on  rills  that  softly  gush, 

Stars  are  softly  winking ; 
When,  through  boughs  that  knit  the  bower, 

Moonlight  gleams  are  stealing  ; 
Woo  her,  till  the  gentle  hour 

Wake  a  gentler  feeling. 

Woo  her,  when  autumnal  dyes 

Tinge  the  woody  mountain  ; 
When  the  dropping  foliage  lies 

In  the  weedy  fountain  ; 


126  POEMS. 

Let  the  scene,  that  tells  how  fast 

Youth  is  passing  over, 
Warn  her,  ere  her  bloom  is  past, 

To  secure  her  lover. 

Woo  her,  when  the  north  winds  call 

At  the  lattice  nightly  ; 
When,  within  the  cheerful  hall. 

Blaze  the  fagots  brightly  ; 
While  the  wintry  tempest  round 

Sweeps  the  landscape  hoary, 
Sweeter  in  her  ear  shall  sound 

Love's  delightful  story. 


HYMN  OF  THE  WALDENSES. 

HEAR,  Father,  hear  thy  faint  afflicted  flock 
Cry  to  thee,  from  the  desert  and  the  rock  ; 
While  those,  who  seek  to  slay  thy  children,  h  >ld 
Blasphemous  worship  under  roofs  of  gold  ; 
And  the  broad  goodly  lands,  with  pleasant  airs 
That  nurse  the  grape  and  wave  the  grain,  are 
theirs. 

Yet  better  were  this  mountain  wilderness, 
And  this  wild  life  of  danger  and  distress — 
Watchings  by  night  and  perilous  flight  by  clay, 


128  POEMS. 

And  meetings  in  the  depths  of  earth  to  pray, 
Better,  far  better,  than  to  kneel  with  them, 
And  pay  the  impious  rite  thy  laws  condemn. 

Thou,   Lord,  dost  hold  the  thunder  ;  the  firm 

land 

Tosses  in  billows  when  it  feels  thy  hand ; 
Thou  dashest  nation  against  nation,  then 
Stillest  the  angry  world  to  peace  again. 
Or,  touch  their  stony  hearts  who  hunt  thy  sons — 
The  murderers  of  our  wives  and  little  ones. 

Yet,  mighty  God,  yet  shall  thy  frown  look  forth 
Unveiled,  and  terribly  shall  shake  the  earth. 
Then  the  foul  power  of  priestly  sin  and  all 
Its  long-upheld  idolatries  shall  fall. 
Thou  shalt  raise  up  the  trampled  and  oppressed, 
And  thy  delivered  saints  shall  dwell  in  rest. 


MONUMENT  MOUNTAIN. 

THOU  who  wouldst  see  the  lovely  and  the  wild 
Mingled  in  harmony  on  Nature's  face, 
Ascend  our  rocky  mountains.     Let  thy  foot 
Fail  not  with  weariness,  for  on  their  tops 
The  beauty  and  the  majesty  of  earth 
Spread  wide  beneath,  shall  make  thee  to  forget 
The  steep  and  toilsome  way.     There,  as  thou 

stand' st, 

The  haunts  of  men  below  thee,  and  around 
The  mountain  summits,  thy  expanding  heart 
6* 


130  POEMS. 

Shall  feel  a  kindred  with  that  loftier  world 
To  which  thou  art  translated,  and  partake 
The  enlargement  of  thy  vision.  Thou  shalt  look 
Upon  the  green  and  rolling  forest  tops 
And  down  into  the  secrets  of  the  glens, 
And  streams,  that  with  their  bordering  thickets 

strive 
To  hide  their  windings.     Thou   shalt  gaze,  at 

once, 

Here  on  white  villages,  and  tilth,  and  herds, 
And  swarming  roads,  and  there  on  solitudes 
That  only  hear  the  torrent,  and  the  wind, 
And  eagle's  shriek.     There  is  a  precipice 
That  seems  a  fragment  of  some  mighty  wall 
Built  by  the  hand  that  fashioned  the  old  world, 
To  separate  its  nations,  and  thrown  down 
When  the  flood  drowned  them.      To  the  north 

a  path 

Conducts  you  up  the  narrow  battlement. 
Steep  is  the  western  side,  shaggy  and  wild 


MONUMENT    MOUNTAIN.  131 

With  mossy  trees,  and  pinnacles  of  flint, 
And  many  a  hanging  crag.     But,  to  the  east, 
Sheer  to  the  vale  go  down  the  bare  old  cliffs, — 
Huge  pillars,  that  in  middle  heaven  upbear 
Their  weather-beaten  capitals,  here  dark 
With  moss  the  growth  of  centuries,  and   there 
Of  chalky  whiteness  where  the  thunderbolt 
Has  splintered  them.     It  is  a  fearful  thing 
To  stand  upon  the  beetling  verge,  and  see 
Where  storm  and  lightning,  from  that  huge 

gray  wall, 

Have  tumbled  down  vast  blocks,  and  at  the  base 
Dashed  them  in  fragments,  and  to  lay  thine  ear 
Over  the  dizzy  depth,  and  hear  the  sound 
Of  winds  that  struggle  with  the  woods  below, 
Come  up  like  ocean  murmurs.     But  the  scene 
Is  lovely  round  ;  a  beautiful  river  there 
Wanders  amid  the  fresh  and  fertile  meads, 
The  paradise  he  made  unto  himself, 
Mining  the  soil  for  ages.     On  each  side 


132  POEMS. 

The  lields  swell  upward  to  the  hills  ;  beyond, 
Above  the  hills,  in  the  blue  distance,  rise 
The  mountain  columns  with  which  earth  props 
heaven. 

There  is  a  tale  about  these  reverend  rocks, 
A  sad  tradition  of  unhappy  love, 
And  sorrows  borne  and  ended,  long  ago, 
When  over  these  fair  vales  the  savage  sought 
His  game  in  the  thick  woods.  There  was  a  maid, 
The  fairest  of  the  Indian  maids,  bright-eyed, 
With  wealth  of  raven  tresses,  a  light  form, 
And  a  gay  heart.     About  her  cabin  door 
The  wide  old  woods  resounded  with  her  song 
And  fairy  laughter  all  the  summer  day. 
She  loved  her  cousin  ;  such  a  love  was  deemed, 
By  the  morality  of  those  stern  tribes, 
Incestuous,  and  she  struggled  hard  and  long 
Against  her  love,  and  reasoned  with  her  heart, 
As  simple  Indian  maiden  might.     In  vain. 


MONUMENT    MOUNTAIN.  133 

Then  her  eye  lost  its  lustre,  and  her  step 

Its  lightness,  and  the  gray-haired   men  that 

passed 

Her  dwelling,  wondered  that  they  heard  no  more 
The  accustomed  song,  and  laugh  of  her,  whose 

looks 
Were  like  the  cheerful  smile  of  Spring,  they 

said, 

Upon  the  winter  of  their  age.     She  went 
To  weep,  where  no  eye  saw,  and  was  not  found 
When  all  the  merry  girls  were  met  to  dance, 
And  all  the  hunters  of  the  tribe  were  out  ; 
Nor  when  they  gathered  from  the  rustling  husk 
The  shining  ear  ;  nor  when,  by  the  river's  side, 
They  pulled  the  grape  and  startled  the  wild 

shades 
With  sounds  of  mirth.     The  keen-eyed  Indian 

dames 

Would  whisper  to  each  other,  as  they  saw 
Her  wasting  form,  and  say  the  girl  will  die! 


134  POEMS. 

One  day  into  the  bosom  of  a  friend, 
A  playmate  of  her  young  and  innocent  years, 
She  poured  her  griefs.     "  Thou  know'st,  and 

thou  alone," 

She  said,  "  for  I  have  told  thee  all,  my  love 
And  guilt  and  sorrow.     I  am  sick  of  life. 
All  night  I  weep  in  darkness,  and  the  morn 
Glares  on  me,  as  upon  a  thing  accursed, 
That  has  no  business  on  the  earth.     I  hate 
The  pastimes  and  the  pleasant  toils  that  once 
I  loved  ;  the  cheerful  voices  of  my  friends 
Sound  in  my  ear  like  mockings,  and,  at  night, 
In  dreams,  my  mother,  from  the  land  of  souls, 
Calls  me  and  chides  me.     All  that  look  on  me 
Do  soem  to  know  my  shame  >  I  cannot  bear 
Their  eyes  ;  I  cannot  from  my  heart  root  out 
The  love  that  wrings  it  so,  and  I  must  die." 

It  was  a  summer  morning,  and  they  went 
To  this  old  precipice.     About  the  cliffs 


MONUMENT    MOUNTAIN.  135 

Lay  garlands,  ears  of  maize,  and  shaggy  skins 
Of  wolf  and  bear,  the  offerings  of  the  tribe 
Here  made  to  the  Great  Spirit,  for  they  deemed, 
Like  worshippers  of  the  elder  time,  that  God 
Doth  walk  on  the  high  places  and  aifect 
The  earth-o'erlooking  mountains.     She  had  on 
The  ornaments  with  which  her  father  loved 
To  deck  the  beauty  of  his  bright-eyed  girl, 
x\nd  bade  her  wear  when  stranger  warriors  came 
To  be  his  guests.      Here  the  friends  sat  them 

down, 

And  sang,  all  day,  old  songs  of  love  and  death, 
And  decked  the  poor  wan  victim's  hair  with 

flowers, 
And  prayed  that  safe  and  swift  might  be  her 

way 

To  that  calm  world  of  sunshine,  where  no  grief 
Makes  the  heart  heavy  and  the  eyelids  red. 
Beautiful  lay  the  region  of  her  tribe 
Below  har — waters  resting  in  the  embrace 


136  POEMS. 

Of  the  wide  forest,  and  maize-planted  glades 
Opening  amid  the  leafy  wilderness. 
She  gazed  upon  it  long,  and  at  the  sight 
Of  her  own  village  peeping  through  the  trees, 
And  her  own  dwelling,  and  the  cabin  roof 
Of  him  she  loved  with  an  unlawful  love, 
And  came  to  die  for,  a  warm  gush  of  tears 
Ban  from  her  eyes.     But  when  the  sun  grew  low 
And  the  hill  shadows  long,  she  threw  herself 
From  the  steep  rock  and  perished.     There  was 

scooped 

Upon  the  mountain's  southern  slope,  a  grave  ; 
And  there  they  laid  her,  in  the  very  garb 
With  which  the  maiden  decked  herself  for  death, 
With  the  same  withering  wild  flowers  in  her  hair. 
And  o'er  the  mould  that  covered  her,  the  tribe 
Built  up  a  simple  monument,  a  cone 
Of  small  loose  stones.     Thenceforward  all  who 

passed, 
Hunter,  and  dame,  and  virgin,  laid  a  stone 


MONUMENT    MOUNTAIN.  137 

In  silence  on  the  pile.     It  stands  there  yet. 
And  Indians  from  the  distant  West,  who  come 
To  visit  where  their  fathers'  bones  are  laid, 
Yet  tell  the  sorrowful  tale,  and  to  this  day 
The  mountain  where  the  hapless  maiden  died 
Is  called  the  Mountain  of  the  Monument. 


AFTER  A  TEMPEST. 

THE  day  had  been  a  day  of  wind  and  storm  ; 
The  wind  was  laid,  the  storm  was  overpast, 
And  stooping  from  the  zenith,  bright  and  warm, 
Shone  the  great  sun  on  the  wide  earth  at  last. 
I  stood  upon  the  upland  slope,  and  cast 
My  eye  upon  a  broad  and  beauteous  scene, 
Where  the  vast  plain  lay  girt  by  mountains  vast, 
And  hills  o'er  hills  lifted  their  heads  of  green, 
With  pleasant  vales  scooped  out  and  villages 
between. 


AFTER   A    TEMPEST.  139 

The  rain-drops  glistened  on  the  trees  around, 
Whose  shadows  on  the  tall  grass  were  not  stirred, 
Save  when  a  shower  of  diamonds,  to  the  ground, 
Was  shaken  by  the  flight  of  startled  bird ; 
For  birds  wore  warbling  round,  and  bees  were 

heard 

About  the  flowers  ;  the  cheerful  rivulet  sung 
And  gossiped,  as  he  hastened  ocean-ward  ; 
To  the  gray  oak  the  squirrel,  chiding,  clung, 
And  chirping  from  the  ground  the  grasshopper 

upsprung. 

And  from  beneath  the  leaves  that  kept  them 

dry 

Flew  many  a  glittering  insect  here  and  there, 
And  darted  up  and  down  the  butterfly, 
That  seemed  a  living  blossom  of  the  air. 
The  flocks  came  scattering  from  the  thicket, 

where 
The  violent  rain  had  pent  them  ;  in  the  way 


140  POEMS. 

Strolled  groups  of  damsels  frolicsome  and  fair  ; 
The  farmer  swung  the  scythe  or  turned  the  hay ; 
And  'twixt  the  heavy  swaths  the  children  were 
at  play. 

It  was  a  scene  of  peace — and,  like  a  spell, 
Did  that  serene  and  golden  sunlight  fall 
Upon  the  motionless  wood  that  clothed  the  fell, 
And  precipice  upspringing  like  a  wall, 
And  glassy  river  and  white  waterfall, 
And  happy  living  things  that  trod  the  bright 
And  beauteous  scene ;  while  far  beyond  them  all, 
On  many  a  lovely  valley,  out  of  sight, 
Was  poured  from  the  blue  heavens  the  same 
soft  golden  light. 

I  looked,  and  thought  the  quiet  of  the  scene 
An  emblem  of  the  peace  that  yet  shall  be, 
When  o'er  earth's  continents,  and  isles  between, 
The  noise  of  war  shall  cease  from  sea  to  sea, 


AFTER    A    TEMPEST.  141 

And  married  nations  dwell  in  harmony  ; 
When  millions,  crouching  in  the  dust  to  one, 
No  more  shall  beg  their  lives  on  bended  knee, 
Nor  the  black  stake  be  dressed,  nor  in  the  sun 
The  o'erlabored  captive  toil,  and  wish  his  life 
were  done. 

Too  long,  at  clash  of  arms  amid  her  bowers 
And  pools  of  blood,  the  earth  has  stood  aghast, 
The  fair  earth,   that   should  only  blush  with 

flowers 

And  ruddy  fruits  ;  but  not  for  aye  can  last 
The  storm,  and  sweet  the  sunshine  when  'tis 

past. 

Lo,  the  clouds  roll  away — they  break — they  fly, 
And,  like  the  glorious  light  of  summer,  cast 
O'er  the  wide  landscape  from  the  embracing  sky, 
On  all  the  peaceful  world  the  smile  of  heaven 

shall  lie. 


AUTUMN  WOODS. 

EKE,  in  the  northern  gale, 
The  summer  tresses  of  the  trees  are  gone, 
The  woods  of  Autumn,  all  around  our  vale, 

Have  put  their  glory  on. 

The  mountains  that  infold, 
In  their  wide  sweep,  the  colored  landscape  round, 
Seem  groups  of  giant  kings,  in  purple  and  gold, 

That  guard  the  enchanted  ground. 


AUTUMN    WOODS.  143 

I  roam  the  woods  that  crown 
The  upland,  where  the  mingled  splendors  glow, 
Where  the  gay  company  of  trees  look  down 

On  the  green  fields  below. 

My  steps  are  not  alone 
In  these  bright  walks  ;  the  sweet  south-west, 

at  play, 
Flies,  rustling,  where  the  painted  leaves  are 

strown 
Along  the  winding  way. 

And  far  in  heaven,  the  while, 
The  sun,  that  sends  that  gale  to  wander  here, 
Pours  out  on  the  fair  earth  his  quiet  smile, — 

The  sweetest  of  the  year. 

Where  now  the  solemn  shade, 
Verdure  and  gloom  where  many  branches  meet ; 
So  grateful,  when  the  noon  of  summer  made 

The  valleys  sick  with  heat  ? 


144  POEMS. 

Let  in  through  all  the  trees 
Come  the  strange  rays  ;  the  forest  depths  are 

bright ; 
Their  sunny-colored  foliage,  in  the  breeze, 

Twinkles,  like  beams  of  light. 

The  rivulet,  late  unseen, 
Where  bickering  through  the  shrubs  its  waters 

ran, 
Shines  with  the  image  of  its  golden  screen 

And  glimmerings  of  the  sun. 

But  'neath  yon  crimson  tree, 
Lover  to  listening  maid  might  breathe  his  flame, 
Nor  mark,  within  its  roseate  canopy, 

Her  blush  of  maiden  shame. 

Oh,  Autumn  !  why  so  soon 
Depart  the  hues  that  make  thy  forests  glad  ; 
Thy  gentle  wind  and  thy  fair  sunny  noon, 

And  leave  thee  wild  nn/1  —f1  ? 


AUTUMN   WOODS.  145 

Ah  !  'twere  a  lot  too  blest 
For  ever  in  thy  colored  shades  to  stray  ; 
Arnid  the  kisses  of  the  soft  south-west 

To  rove  and  dream  for  aye  ; 

And  leave  the  vain  low  strife 
That  makes  men  mad — the  tug  for  wealth  and 

power, 
The  passions  and  the  cares  that  wither  life, 

And  waste  its  little  hour. 


MUTATION. 

THEY  talk  of  short-lived  pleasure — be  it  so — 

Pain  dies  as  quickly  :   stern,  hard-featured 

pain 
Expires,  and  lets  her  weary  prisoner  go. 

The  fiercest  agonies  have  shortest  reign  ; 

And  after  dreams  of  horror,  comes  again 
The  welcome  morning  with  its  rays  of  peace. 

Oblivion,  softly  wiping  out  the  stain, 
Makes  the  strong  secret  pangs  of  shame  to  cease ; 
Kemorse  is  virtue's  root ;  its  fair  increase 

Are  fruits  of  innocence  and  blessedness , 


MUTATION.  147 

Thus  joy,  overborne  and  bound,  doth  still  release 
His  young  limbs  from  the  chains  that  round 

him  press. 

Weep  not  that  the  world  changes — did  it  keep 
A  stable,  changeless  state,  'twere  cause  indeed 

to  weep. 


NOVEMBER. 

YET  one  smile  more,  departing,  distant  sun  ! 

One  mellow  smile  through  the  soft  vapory  air, 
Ere,  o'er  the  frozen  earth,  the  loud  winds  run, 

Or  snows  are  sifted  o'er  the  meadows  bare. 
One  smile  on  the  brown  hills  and  naked  trees, 

And  the  dark  rocks  whose  summer  wreaths 

are  cast, 
And  the  blue  gentian  flower,  that,  in  the  breeze, 

Nods  lonely,  of  her  beauteous  race  the  last, 
Yet  a  few  sunny  days,  in  which  the  bee 


NOVEMBER.  149 

Shall  murmur  by  the  hedge  that  skirts  the 

way, 
The  cricket  chirp  upon  the  russet  lea, 

And  man  delight  to  linger  in  thy  ray. 
Yet  one  rich  smile,  and  we  will  try  to  bear 
The  piercing  winter  frost,  and  winds,  and  dark 
ened  air. 


OF  THE  GKEEK  AMAZON. 


I  BUCKLE  to  my  slender  side 

The  pistol  and  the  scimitar, 
And  in  my  maiden  flower  and  pride 

Am  come  to  share  the  tasks  of  war. 
And  yonder  stands  my  fiery  steed, 

That  paws  the  ground  and  neighs  to  go, 
My  charger  of  the  Arab  breed,  — 

I  took  him  from  the  routed  foe. 

My  mirror  is  the  mountain  spring, 
At  which  I  dress  my  ruffled  hair  ; 


SONG   OF    THE   GKEEK    AMAZON.  151 

My  dimmed  and  dusty  arms  I  bring, 
And  wash  away  the  blood-stain  there. 

Why  should  I  guard  from  wind  and  sun 
This  cheek,  whose  virgin  rose  is  fled  1 

It  was  for  one — oh,  only  one — 
I  kept  its  bloom,  and  he  is  dead. 

But  they  who  slew  him — unaware 

Of  coward  murderers  lurking  nigh — 
And  left  him  to  the  fowls  of  air, 

Are  yet  alive — and  they  must  die. 
They  slew  him — and  my  virgin  years 

Are  vowed  to  Greece  and  vengeance  now, 
And  many  an  Othman  dame  in  tears, 

Shall  rue  the  Grecian  maiden's  vow. 

I  touched  the  lute  in  better  days, 
I  led  in  dance  the  joyous  band  ; 

Ah  !  they  may  move  to  mirthful  lays 
Whose  hands  can  touch  a  lover's  hand. 


152  POEMS. 

The  march  of  hosts  that  haste  to  meet 
Seems  gayer  than  the  dance  to  me  ; 

The  lute's  sweet  tones  are  not  so  sweet 
As  the  fierce  shout  of  victory. 


TO  A  CLOUD. 

BEAUTIFUL  cloud  !  with  folds  so  soft  and  fair, 

Swimming  in  the  pure  quiet  air  ! 
Thy  fleeces  bathed  in  sunlight,  while  "below 

Thy  shadow  o'er  the  vale  moves  slow  ; 
Where,  midst  their  labor,  pause  the  reaper  train, 

As  cool  it  comes  along  the  grain. 
Beautiful  cloud  !  I  would  I  were  with  thee 

In  thy  calm  way  o'er  land  and  sea  : 
To  rest  on  thy  unrolling  skirts,  and  look 

On  Earth  as  on  an  open  book  ; 
7* 


154  POEMS. 

On  streams  that  tie  her  realms  with  silver  bands, 

And  the  long  ways  that  seam  her  lands  ; 
And  hear  her  humming  cities,  and  the  sound 

Of  the  great  ocean  breaking  round. 
Ay — I  would  sail,  upon  thy  air-borne  car, 

To  blooming  regions  distant  far, 
To  where  the  sun  of  Andalusia  shines 

On  his  own  olive-groves  and  vines, 
Or  the  soft  lights  of  Italy's  clear  sky 

In  smiles  upon  her  ruins  lie. 

But  I  would  woo  the  winds  to  let  us  rest 

O'er  Greece  long  fettered  and  oppressed, 
Whose  sons  at  length  have  heard  the  call  that 
comes 

From  the  old  battle-fields  and  tombs, 
And  risen,  and  drawn  the  sword,  and  on  the  foe 

Have  dealt  the  swift  and  desperate  blow, 
And  the  Othman  power  is  cloven,  and  the  stroke 

Has  touched  its  chains,  and  they  are  broke. 


TO    A    CLOUD.  155 

Ay,  we  would  linger  till  the  sunset  there 
Should  come,  to  purple  all  the  air, 

And  thou  reflect  upon  the  sacred  ground 
The  ruddy  radiance  streaming  round. 

Bright  meteor  !  for  the  summer  noontide  made ! 

Thy  peerless  beauty  yet  shall  fade. 
The  sun,  that  fills  with  light  each  glistening  fold, 

Shall  set,  and  leave  thee  dark  and  cold  : 
The  hlast  shalt  rend  thy  skirts,  or  thou  mayst 
frown 

In  the  dark  heaven  when  storms  come  down ; 
And  weep  in  rain  till  man's  inquiring  eye 

Miss  thee,  for  ever,  from  the  sky. 


THE  MURDERED  TRAVELLER. 

WHEN  spring,  to  woods  and  wastes  around, 

Brought  bloom  and  joy  again, 
The  murdered  traveller's  bones  were  found, 

Far  down  a  narrow  glen. 

The  fragrant  birch,  above  him,  hung 

Her  tassels  in  the  sky ; 
And  many  a  vernal  blossom  sprung, 

And  nodded  careless  bv. 


THE   MURDEKED   TRAVELLER.  157 

The  red-bird  warbled,  as  he  wrought 

His  hanging  nest  o'erhead, 
And  fearless,  near  the  fatal  spot, 

Her  young  the  partridge  led. 

But  there  was  weeping  far  away, 

And  gentle  eyes  for  him, 
With  watching  many  an  anxious  day, 

Were  sorrowful  and  dim. 

They  little  knew,  who  loved  him  so, 

The  fearful  death  he  met, 
When  shouting  o'er  the  desert  snow, 

Unarmed,  and  hard  beset  ; — 

Nor  how,  when  round  the  frosty  pole 

The  northern  dawn  was  red, 
The  mountain  wolf  and  wild  cat  stole 

To  banquet  on  the  dead  ; — 


158  POEMS. 

Nor  how,  when  strangers  found  his  bones, 

They  dressed  the  hasty  bier, 
And  marked  his  grave  with  nameless  stones, 

Unmoistened  by  a  tear. 

But  long  they  looked,  and  feared,  and  wept, 

Within  his  distant  home  ; 
And  dreamed,  and  started  as  they  slept, 

For  joy  that  he  was  come. 

Long,  long  they  looked — but  never  spied 

His  welcome  step  again, 
Nor  knew  the  fearful  death  he  died 

Far  down  that  narrow  glen. 


HYMN  TO  THE  NORTH   STAB. 

THE  sad  and  solemn  night 
Hath  yet  her  multitude  of  cheerful  fires  ; 

The  glorious  host  of  light 
Walk  the  dark  hemisphere  till  she  retires  ; 
All  through  her  silent  watches,  gliding  slow, 
Her  constellations  come,  and  climb  the  heavens, 
and  go. 

Day,  too,  hath  many  a  star 
To  grace  his  gorgeous  reign,  as  bright  as  they  ; 
Through  the  blue  fields  afar, 


160  POEMS. 

Unseen,  they  follow  in  his  flaming  way  : 
Many  a  bright  lingerer,  as  the  eve  grows  dim, 
Tells  what  a  radiant  troop  arose  and  set  with 
him. 

And  thou  dost  see  them  rise, 
Star  of  the  Pole  !  and  thou  dost  see  them  set. 

Alone,  in  thy  cold  skies, 
Thou  keep'st  thy  old  unmoving  station  yet, 
Nor  join'st  the  dances  of  that  glittering  train, 
Nor  dipp'st  thy  virgin  orb  in  the  blue  western 
main. 

There,  at  morn's  rosy  birth, 
Thou  lookest  meekly  through  the  kindling  air, 

And  eve,  that  round  the  earth 
Chases  the  day,  beholds  thee  watching  there  ; 
There  noontide  finds  thee,  and  the  hour  that  calls 
The  shapes   of  polar  flame  to  scale  .heaven's 
azure  walls. 


HYMN   TO   THE   NOKTH    STAB.  161 

Alike,  beneath  thine  eye, 
The  deeds  of  darkness  and  of  light  are  done  ; 

High  towards  the  star-lit  sky 
Towns  blaze,  the  smoke  of  battle  blots  the  sun, 
The  night-storm  on  a  thousand  hills  is  loud, 
And  the  strong  wind  of  day  doth  mingle  sea 
and  cloud. 

On  thine  unaltering  blaze, 
The  half-wrecked  mariner,  his  compass  lost, 

Fixes  his  steady  gaze, 

And  steers,  undoubting,  to  the  friendly  coast ; 
And  they  who  stray  in  perilous  wastes,  by  night, 
Are  glad  when  thou  dost  shine  to  guide  their 

footsteps  right. 

And,  therefore,  bards  of  old, 
Sages,  and  hermits  of  the  solemn  wood, 
Did  in  thy  beams  behold 


162  POEMS. 

A  beauteous  type  of  that  unchanging  good, 
That  bright  eternal  beacon,  by  whose  ray 
The  voyager  of  time  should  shape  his  heedful 
way. 


THE  LAPSE  OF  TIME. 

LAMENT,  who  will,  in  fruitless  tears, 
The  speed  with  which  our  moments  fly  ; 

I  sigh  not  over  vanished  years, 

But  watch  the  years  that  hasten  by. 

Look,  how  they  come, — a  mingled  crowd 
Of  bright  and  dark,  but  rapid  days  ; 

Beneath  them,  like  a  summer  cloud, 
The  wide  world  changes  as  I  gaze. 


164  POEMS. 

What  !  grieve  that  time  has  brought  so  soon 

The  sober  age  of  manhood  on  ? 
As  idly  might  I  weep  at  noon, 

To  see  the  blush  of  morning  gone. 

Could  I  give  up  the  hopes  that  glow 

In  prospect  like  Elysian  isles ; 
And  let  the  cheerful  future  go  ; 

With  all  her  promises  and  smiles  ? 

The  future  ! — cruel  were  the  power 

Whose  doom  would  tear  thee  from  my  heart. 

Thou  sweetener  of  the  present  hour  ! 
We  cannot — no — we  will  not  part. 

Oh,  leave  me,  still,  the  rapid  flight 
That  makes  the  changing  seasons  gay, 

The  grateful  speed  that  brings  the  night, 
The  swift  and  glad  return  of  day  ; 


THE   LAPSE   OF   TIME.  165 

The  months  that  touch,  with  added  grace, 
This  little  prattler  at  my  knee, 

In  whose  arch  eye  and  speaking  face 
New  meaning  every  hour  I  see  ; 

The  years,  that  o'er  each  sister  land 
Shall  lift  the  country  of  my  birth, 

And  nurse  her  strength,  till  she  shall  stand 
The  pride  and  pattern  of  the  earth : 

Till  younger  commonwealths,  for  aid, 
Shall  cling  about  her  ample  robe, 

And  from  her  frown  shall  shrink  afraid 
The  crowned  oppressors  of  the  globe. 

True — time  will  seam  and  blanch  my  brow — 
Well — I  shall  sit  with  aged  men, 

And  my  good  glass  will  tell  me  how 
A  grizzly  beard  becomes  me  then. 


166  POEMS. 

And  then,  should  no  dishonor  lie 
Upon  my  head,  when  I  am  gray, 

Love  yet  shall  watch  my  fading  eye, 
And  smooth  the  path  of  my  decay. 

Then  haste  thee,  Time — 'tis  kindness  all 
That  speeds  thy  winged  feet  so  fast ; 

Thy  pleasures  stay  not  till  they  pall, 
And  all  thy  pains  are  quickly  past. 

Thou  fliest  and  bear'st  away  our  woes, 
And  as  thy  shadowy  train  depart, 

The  memory  of  sorrow  grows 
A  lighter  burden  on  the  heart. 


SONG  OF  THE  STAKS. 

WHEN  the  radiant  morn  of  creation  broke, 
And  the  world  in  the  smile  of  God  awoke, 
And  the  empty  realms  of  darkness  and  death 
Were  moved  through  their  depths  by  his  mighty 

breath, 

And  orbs  of  beauty  and  spheres  of  flame 
From  the  void  abyss  by  myriads  came, — 
In  the  joy  of  youth  as  they  darted  away, 
Through  the  widening  wastes  of  space  to  play, 
Their  silver  voices  in  chorus  rang, 
And  this  was  the  song  the  bright  ones  sang  : 


168  POEMS. 

"  Away,  away,  through  the  wide,  wide  sky, 
The  blue  fair  fields  that  before  us  lie, — 
Each  sun  with  the  worlds  that  round  him  roll, 
Each  planet,  poised  on  her  turning  pole  ; 
With  her  isles  of  green,  and  her  clouds  of  white; 
And  her  waters  that  lie  like  fluid  light. 


"  For  the  source  of  glory  uncovers  his  face, 
And  the  brightness  o'erflows  unbounded  space  ; 
And  we  drink  as  we  go  the  luminous  tides 
In  our  ruddy  air  and  our  blooming  sides  ; 
Lo,  yonder  the  living  splendors  play  ; 
Away,  on  our  joyous  path,  away  ! 

"  Look,  look,  through  our  glittering  ranks  afar, 

In  the  infinite  azure,  star  after  star, 

How  they  brighten  and  bloom  as  they  swiftly 

pass  ! 
How  the  verdure  runs  o'er  each  rolling  mass  ! 


SONG  OF   THE   STAKS.  169 

And  the  path  of  the  gentle  winds  is  seen, 
Where  the  small  waves  dance,  and  the  young 
woods  lean. 

"  And  see  where  the  brighter  day-beams  pour, 
How  the  rainbows  hang  in  the  sunny  shower  ; 
And  the  morn  and  eve,  with  their  pomp  of  hues, 
Shift  o'er  the  bright  planets  and  shed  their  dews; 
And  'twixt  them  both,  o'er  the  teeming  ground, 
With  her  shadowy  cone  the  night  goes  round  ! 

"  Away,  away  !  in  our  blossoming  bowers, 

In  the  soft  air  wrapping  these  spheres  of  ours, 

In  the  seas  and  fountains  that  shine  with  morn, 

See,  Love  is  brooding,  and  Life  is  born, 

And  breathing  myriads  are  breaking  from  night, 

To  rejoice,  like  us,  in  motion  and  light. 

"  Glide  on  in  your  beauty,  ye  youthful  spheres, 
To  weave  the  dance  that  measures  the  years  ; 

VOL.  I. 8 


170  POEMS. 

Glide  on,  in  the  glory  and  gladness  sent, 
To  the  furthest  wall  of  the  firmament, — 
The  boundless  visible  smile  of  Him, 
To  the  veil  of  ^hose  "brow  your  lamps  are  dim.'' 


A  FOREST  HYMN. 

THE  groves  were  God's  first  temples.     Ere 

man  learned 

To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave, 
And  spread  the  roof  above  them, — ere  he  framed 
The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  back 
The  sound  of  anthems  ;  in  the  darkling  wood, 
Amid  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down, 
And  offered  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 
And  supplication.     For  his  simple  heart 
Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences 


172  POEMS. 

Which,  from  the  stilly  twilight  of  the  place, 
And  from  the  gray  old  trunks  that  high  in  heaven 
Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the  sound 
Of  the  invisible  breath  that  swayed  at  once 
All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  and  bowed 
His  spirit  with  the  thought  of  boundless  power 
And  inaccessible  majesty.     Ah,  why 
Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neglect 
God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 
Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 
That  our  frail  hands  have  raised?     Let  me,  at 

least, 

Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood, 
Offer  one  hymn — thrice  happy,  if  it  find 
Acceptance  in  His  ear. 

Father,  thy  hand 

Hath  reared  these  venerable  columns,  thou 
Didst  weave  this  verdant  roof.     Thou  didst  look 
down 


A    FOREST    HYMN.  1*73 

Upon  the  naked  earth,  and,  forthwith,  rose 
All  these  fair  ranks  of  trees.     They,  in  thy  sun, 
Budded,  and  shook  their  green  leaves  in  thy 

breeze, 
And  shot  towards  heaven.     The  century-living 

crow, 

Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old  and  died 
Among  their  branches,  till,  at  last,  they  stood, 
As  now  they  stand,  massy,  and  tall,  and  dark, 
Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshipper  to  hold 
Communion  with  his  Maker.  These  dim  vaults, 
These  winding  aisles,  of  human  pomp  or  pride 
Eeport  not.     No  fantastic  carvings  show 
The  boast  of  our  vain  race  to  change  the  form 
Of  thy  fair  works.     But  thou  art  here — thou 

fill'st 

The  solitude.     Thou  art  in  the  soft  winds 
That  run  along  the  summit  of  these  trees 
In  music  ;  thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath 
That  from  the  inmost  darkness  of  the  place 


174  POEMS. 

Comes,    scarcely  felt ;  the  barky   trunks,  the 

ground, 
The  fresh  moist  ground,  are  all  instinct  with 

thee. 

Here  is  continual  worship  ; — nature,  here, 
In  the  tranquillity  that  thou  dost  love, 
Enjoys  thy  presence.     Noiselessly,  around, 
From  perch  to  perch,  the  solitary  bird 
Passes  ;  and  yon  clear  spring,  that,  midst  its 

herbs, 

Wells  softly  forth  and  wandering  steeps  the  roots 
Of  half  the  mighty  forest,  tells  no  tale 
Of  all  the  good  it  does.     Thou  hast  not  left 
Thyself  without  a  witness,  in  these  shades, 
Of  thy  perfections.      Grandeur,  strength,  and 

grace 

Are  here  to  speak  of  thee.     This  mighty  oak-— 
By  whose  immovable  stem  I  stand  and  seem 
Almost  annihilated — not  a  prince, 
In  all  that  proud  old  world  beyond  the  deep? 


A    FOREST    HYMN.  175 

E'er  wore  his  crown  as  loftily  as  lie 
Wears  the  green  coronal  of  leaves  with  which 
Thy  hand  has  graced  him.     Nestled  at  his  root 
Is  beauty,  such  as  blooms  not  in  the  glare 
Of  the  broad  sun.     That  delicate  forest  flower 
With  scented  breath,  and  look  so  like  a  smile, 
Seems,  as  it  issues  from  the  shapeless  mould, 
An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  Life, 
A  visible  token  of  the  upholding  Love, 
That  are  the  soul  of  this  wide  universe. 


My  heart  is  awed  within  me  when  I  think 
Of  the  great  miracle  that  still  goes  on, 
In  silence,  round  me — the  perpetual  work 
Of  thy  creation,  finished,  yet  renewed 
For  ever.     Written  on  thy  works  I  read 
The  lesson  of  thy  own  eternity. 
Lo  !  all  grow  old  and  die — but  see  again 
How  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  decay 


176  POEMS. 

Youth  presses — ever  gay  and  beautiful  youth, 
In  all  its  beautiful  forms.     These  lofty  trees 
Wave  not  less  proudly  that  their  ancestors 
Moulder  beneath  them.     Oh,  there  is  not  lost 
One  of  earth's  charms  :  upon  her  bosom  yet, 
After  the  flight  of  untold  centuries, 
The  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies 
And  yet  shall  lie.     Life  mocks  the  idle  hate 
Of  his  arch  enemy  Death — yea,  seats  himself 
Upon  the  tyrant's  throne — the  sepulchre, 
And  of  the  triumphs  of  his  ghastly  foe 
Makes  his  own  nourishment.  For  he  came  forth 
From  thine  own  bosom,  and  shall  have  no  end. 

There  have  been  holy  men  who  hid  themselves 
Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 
Their  lives  to  thought  and  prayer,  till  they 

outlived 

The  generation  born  with  them,  nor  seemed 
Less  aged  than  the  hoary  trees  and  rocks 


A    FOREST    HYMN.  177 

Around  them  ; — and  there  have  been  holy  men 

Who  deemed  it  were  not  well  to  pass  life  thus. 

But  let  me  often  to  these  solitudes 

Retire,  and  in  thy  presence  reassure 

My  feeble  virtue.     Here  its  enemies, 

The  passions,  at  thy  plainer  footsteps  shrink 

And  tremble  and  are  still.     Oh,   God!  when 

thou 

Dost  scare  the  world  with  tempests,  set  on  fire 
The  heavens  with  falling  thunderbolts,  or  fill 
With  all  the  waters  of  the  firmament, 
The  swift  dark  whirlwind  that  uproots  the  woods 
And  drowns  the  villages  ;  when,  at  thy  call, 
Uprises  the  great  deep  and  throws  himself 
Upon  the  continent,  and  overwhelms 
Its  cities — who  forgets  not,  at  the  sight 
Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of  thy  power, 
His  pride,  and  lays  his  strifes  and  folly  by  1 
Oh,  from  these  sterner  aspects  of  thy  face 
Spare  me  and  mine,  nor  let  us  need  the  wrath 
VOL.  i. — 8* 


178  POEMS. 

Of  the  mad  unchained  elements  to  teach 
Who  rules  them.     Be  it  ours  to  meditate, 
In  these  calm  shades,  thy  milder  majesty, 
And  to  the  heantiful  order  of  thy  works 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives. 


"  OH,  FAIREST  OF  THE  RURAL 
MAIDS." 

OH,  fairest  of  the  rural  maids  ! 
Thy  birth  was  in  the  forest  shades  ; 
Green  boughs,  and  glimpses  of  the  sky, 
Were  all  that  met  thine  infant  eye. 

Thy  sports,  thy  wanderings,  when  a  child, 
Were  ever  in  the  sylvan  wild  ; 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  place 
Is  in  thy  heart  and  on  thy  face. 


180  POEMS. 

The  twilight  of  the  trees  and  rocks 
Is  in  the  light  shade  of  thy  locks  ; 
Thy  step  is  as  the  wind,  that  weaves 
Its  playful  way  among  the  leaves. 

Thine  eyes  are  springs,  in  whose  serene 
And  silent  waters  heaven  is  seen  ; 
Their  lashes  are  the  herbs  that  look 
On  their  young  figures  in  the  brook; 

The  forest  depths,  by  foot  unpressed, 
Are  not  more  sinless  than  thy  breast ; 
The  holy  peace,  that  fills  the  air 
Of  those  calm  solitudes,  is  there. 


"  I  BEOKE  THE  SPELL  THAT  HELD 
ME   LONG." 

I  BROKE  the  spell  that  held  me  long, 

The  dear,  dear  witchery  of  song. 

I  said,  the  poet's  idle  lore 

Shall  waste  my  prime  of  years  no  more, 

For  Poetry,  though  heavenly  born, 

Consorts  with  poverty  and  scorn. 

I  broke  the  spell — nor  deemed  its  power 
Could  fetter  me  another  hour. 
Ah,  thoughtless  !  how  could  I  forget 
Its  causes  were  around  me  yet  ? 


182  POEMS. 

For  wheresoe'er  I  looked,  the  while, 
Was  nature's  everlasting  smile. 

Still  came  and  lingered  on  my  sight 

Of  flowers  and  streams  the  bloom  and  light, 

And  glory  of  the  stars  and  sun  ; — 

And  these  and  poetry  are  one. 

They,  ere  the  world  had  held  me  long, 

Kecalled  me  to  the  love  of  song. 


JUNE. 

I  GAZED  upon  the  glorious  sky 

And  the  green  mountains  round  ; 
And  thought  that  when  I  came  to  lie 

At  rest  within  the  ground, 
'Twere  pleasant,  that  in  flowery  June, 
When  brooks  send  up  a  cheerful  tune, 

And  groves  a  joyous  sound, 
The  sexton's  hand,  my  grave  to  make, 
The  rich,  green  mountain  turf  should  break. 

A  cell  within  the  frozen  mould, 
A  coffin  borne  through  sleet, 


184  POEMS. 

And  icy  clods  above  it  rolled, 

While  fierce  the  tempests  beat — 

Away  ! — I  will  not  think  of  these — 

Blue  be  the  sky  and  soft  the  breeze, 
Earth  green  beneath  the  feet, 

And  be  the  damp  mould  gently  pressed 

Into  my  narrow  place  of  rest. 

There  through  the  long,  long  summer  hours 

The  golden  light  should  lie, 
And  thick  young  herbs  and  groups  of  flowers 

Stand  in  their  beauty  by. 
The  oriole  should  build  and  tell 
His  love-tale  close  beside  my  cell ; 

The  idle  butterfly 

Should  rest  him  there,  and  there  be  heard 
The  housewife  bee  and  humming-bird. 

And  what  if  cheerful  shouts  at  noon 
Come,  from  the  village  sent, 


JUNE.  185 

Or  songs  of  maids,  beneath  the  moon 

With  fairy  laughter  blent  ? 
And  what  if,  in  the  evening  light, 
Betrothed  lovers  walk  in  sight 

Of  my  low  monument  ? 
I  would  the  lovely  scene  around 
Might  know  no  sadder  sight  cr  sound. 

I  know,  I  know  I  should  not  see 

The  season's  glorious  show, 
Nor  would  its  brightness  shine  for  me, 

Nor  its  wild  music  flow ; 
But  if,  around  my  place  of  sleep, 
The  friends  I  love  should  come  to  weep, 

They  migfrt  not  haste  to  go. 
Soft  airs,  and  song,  and  light,  and  bloom, 
Should  keep  them  lingering  by  my  tomb. 

These  to  their  softened  hearts  should  bear 
The  thought  of  what  has  been, 


186  POEMS. 

And  speak  of  one  who  cannot  share 

The  gladness  of  the  scene  ; 
Whose  part,  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills 
The  circuit  of  the  summer  hills, 
Is — that  his  grave  is  green  ; 
And  deeply  would  their  hearts  rejoice 
To  hear  again  his  living  voice. 


A  SONG  OF  PITCAIRN'S  ISLAND. 

COME,  take  our  boy,  and  we  will  go 

Before  our  cabin  door  ; 
The  winds  shall  bring  us,  as  they  blow, 

The  murmurs  of  the  shore  ; 
And  we  will  kiss  his  young  blue  eyes, 
And  I  will  sing  him,  as  he  lies, 

Songs  that  were  made  of  yore  : 
I'll  sing,  in  his  delighted  ear, 
The  island  lays  thou  lov'st  to  hear. 

And  thou,  while  stammering  I  repeat, 
Thy  country's  tongue  shall  teach  ; 


188  POEMS. 

Tis  not  so  soft,  but  far  more  sweet 

Than  my  own  native  speech  : 
For  thou  no  other  tongue  didst  know, 
When,  scarcely  twenty  moons  ago, 

Upon  Tahete's  beach, 
Thou  cam'st  to  woo  me  to  be  thine, 
With  many  a  speaking  look  and  sign. 

I  knew  thy  meaning — thou  didst  praise 
My  eyes,  my  locks  of  jet ; 

Ah  !  well  for  me  they  won  thy  gaze — 
But  thine  were  fairer  yet  ! 

I'm  glad  to  see  my  infant  wear 

Thy  soft  blue  eyes  and  sunny  hair, 
And  when  my  sight  is  met 

By  his  white  brow  and  blooming  cheek, 

I  feel  a  joy  I  cannot  speak. 

Come  talk  of  Europe's  maids  with  me, 
Whose  necks  and  cheeks,  they  tell, 


A  SONG  OF  PITCAIRN'S  ISLAND.         189 

Outshine  the  beauty  of  the  sea, 
White  foam  and  crimson  shell. 

I'll  shape  like  theirs  my  simple  dress, 

And  bind  like  them  each  jetty  tress, 
A  sight  to  please  thee  well : 

And  for  my  dusky  brow  will  braid 

A  bonnet  like  an  English  maid. 

Come,  for  the  soft  low  sunlight  calls, 
We  lose  the  pleasant  hours  ; 

'Tis  lovelier  than  these  cottage  walls,— 
That  seat  among  the  flowers. 

And  I  will  learn  of  thee  a  prayer 

To  Him  who  gave  a  home  so  fair, 
A  lot  so  blest  as  ours — • 

The  God  who  made  for  thee  and  me 

This  sweet  lone  isle  amid  the  sea. 


THE  FIRMAMENT. 

AY  !  gloriously  thou  standest  there, 
Beautiful,  boundless  firmament  ! 

That,  swelling  wide  o'er  earth  and  air, 
And  round  the  horizon  bent, 

With  thy  bright  vault,  and  sapphire  wall, 

Dost  overhang  and  circle  all. 

Far,  far  below  thee,  tall  gray  trees 
Arise,  and  piles  built  up  of  old, 


THE   FIRMAMENT.  191 

And  hills,  whose  ancient  summits  freeze 

In  the  fierce  light  and  cold. 
The  eagle  soars  his  utmost  height, 
Yet  far  thou  stretchest  o'er  his  flight. 


Thou  hast  thy  frowns — with  thee  on  high 
The  storm  has  made  his  airy  seat, 

Beyond  that  soft  blue  curtain  lie 
His  stores  of  hail  and  sleet. 

Thence  the  consuming  lightnings  break, 

There  the  strong  hurricanes  awake. 


Yet  art  thou  prodigal  of  smiles — 

Smiles,  sweeter  than  thy  frowns  are  stern 

Earth  sends,  from  all  her  thousand  isles, 
A  shout  at  their  return. 

The  glory  that  comes  down  from  thee, 

Bathes,  in  deep  joy,  the  land  and  sea. 


192  POEMS. 

The  sun,  the  gorgeous  sun  is  thine, 

The  pomp  that  brings  and  shuts  the  day, 

The  clouds  that  round  him  change  and  shine, 
The  airs  that  fan  his  way. 

Thence  look  the  thoughtful  stars,  and  there 

The  meek  moon  walks  the  silent  air. 

The  sunny  Italy  may  boast 

The  beauteous  tints  that  flush  her  skies, 
And  lovely,  round  the  Grecian  coast, 

May  thy  blue  pillars  rise. 
I  only  know  how  fair  they  stand 
Around  my  own  beloved  land. 

And  they  are  fair — a  charm  is  theirs, 

That  earth,  the  proud  green  earth,  has  not- 

With  all  the  forms,  and  hues,  and  airs, 
That  haunt  her  sweetest  spot. 

We  gaze  upon  the  calm  pure  sphere. 

And  read  of  Heaven's  eternal  year. 


THE   FIRMAMENT.  193 

Oh,  when,  amid  the  throng  of  men, 
The  heart  grows  sick  of  hollow  mirth, 

How  willingly  we  turn  us  then 
Away  from  this  cold  earth, 

And  look  into  thy  azure  breast, 

For  seats  of  innocence  and  rest  ! 

VOL.  i. — 9 


"  I  CANNOT  FOKGET  WITH  WHAT 
FEBVID  DEVOTION." 

I  CANNOT  forget  with  what  fervid  devotion 
I  worshipped  the  visions  of  verse  and  of  fame : 

Each  gaze  at  the  glories  of  earth,  sky,  and 

ocean, 
To  my  kindled  emotions,  was  wind  over  flame. 

And  deep  were  my  musings  in  life's  early  blos 
som, 

Mid  the  twilight  of  mountain  groves  wander 
ing  long  ; 


"l   CANNOT   FOKGET."  195 

How  thrilled  my  young  veins,  and  how  throbbed 

my  full  bosom, 
When  o'er  me  descended  the  spirit  of  song. 

'Mong  the  deep-cloven  fells  that  for  ages  had 

listened 

To  the  rush  of  the  pebble-paved  river  between, 
Where  the  kingfisher  screamed  and  gray  preci 
pice  glistened, 

All  breathless  with  awe  have  I  gazed  on  the 
scene  ; 

Till  I  felt  the  dark  power  o'er  my  reveries  steal 
ing? 
From  the  gloom  of  the  thickets  that  over  me 

hung, 
And  the  thoughts  that  awoke  in  that  rapture 

of  feeling, 

Were  formed  into  verse  as  they  rose  to  my 
tongue. 


196  POEMS. 

Bright  visions  !   I  mixed  with  the  world,  and 
ye  faded  ; 

No  longer  your  pure  rural  worshipper  now  ; 
In  the  haunts  your  continual  presence  pervaded, 

Ye  shrink  from  the  signet  of  care  on  my  brow. 

In  the  old  mossy  groves  on  the  breast  of  the 

mountain, 

In  deep  lonely  glens  where  the  waters  com 
plain, 
By  the  shade  of  the  rock,  by  the  gush  of  the 

fountain, 

I  seek  your  loved  footsteps,  but  seek  them  in 
vain. 

Oh,  leave  not,  forlorn  and  for  ever  forsaken, 
Your  pupil  and  victim  to  life  and  its  tears  ! 

But  sometimes  return,  and  in  mercy  awaken 
The  glories  ye  showed  to  his  earlier  years. 


TO  A  MUSQUITO. 

FAIR  insect !  that,  with  threadlike  legs  spread 
out, 

And  blood-extracting  bill  and  filmy  wing, 
Dost  murmur,  as  thou  slowly  saiTst  about, 

In  pitiless  ears  full  many  a  plaintive  thing, 
And  tell  how  little  our  large  veins  should  bleed, 
Would  we  but  yield  them  to  thy  bitter  need. 

Unwillingly,  I  own,  and,  what  is  worse, 
Full  angrily  men  hearken  to  thy  plaint ; 


198  POEMS. 

Thou  gettest  many  a  brush  and  many  a  curse, 
For  saying  thou  art  gaunt,  and  starved,  and 

faint : 

Even  the  old  beggar,  while  he  asks  for  food, 
Would  kill  thee,  hapless  stranger,  if  he  could. 

I  call  thee  stranger,  for  the  town,  I  ween, 

Has  not  the  honor  of  so  proud  a  birth, — 
Thou  com'st  from  Jersey  meadows,  fresh  and 

green, 
The  offspring  of  the  gods,  though  born  on 

earth ; 

For  Titan  was  thy  sire,  and  fair  was  she, 
The  ocean  nymph  that  nursed  thy  infancy. 

Beneath  the  rushes  was  thy  cradle  swung, 
And  when,  at  length,  thy  gauzy  wings  grew 
strong, 

Abroad  to  gentle  airs  their  folds  were  flung, 
Rose  in  the  sky  and  bore  thee  soft  along ; 


TO   A   MUSQUITO.  199 

The  south  wind  breathed  to  waft  thee  on  thy 

way, 
And  danced  and  shone  beneath  the  billowy  bay. 

Calm  rose  afar  the  city  spires,  and  thence 
Came  the  deep  murmur  of  its  throng  of  men, 

And  as  its  grateful  odors  met  thy  sense, 

They  seemed  the  perfumes  of  thy  native  fen. 

Fair  lay  its  crowded  streets,  and  at  the  sight 

Thy  tiny  song  grew  shriller  with  delight. 

At  length  thy  pinions  fluttered  in  Broadway — 
Ah,  there  were  fairy  steps,  and  white  necks 

kissed 

By  wanton  airs,  and  eyes  whose  killing  ray 
Shone   through  the   snowy  veils   like  stars 

through  mist ; 

And  fresh  as  morn,  on  many  a  cheek  and  chin, 
Bloomed  the  bright  blood  through  the  trans 
parent  skin. 


200  .        POEMS. 

Sure  these  were  sights  to  touch  an  anchorite  ! 

What !  do  I  hear  thy  slender  voice  complain? 
Thou  wailest,  when  I  talk  of  beauty's  light, 

As  if  it  brought  the  memory  of  pain  : 
Thou  art  a  wayward  being — well — come  near, 
And  pour  thy  tale  of  sorrow  in  my  ear. 

What    sayst    thou — slanderer  ! — rouge   makes 

thee  sick? 

And  China  bloom  at  best  is  sorry  food  ? 
And  Eowland's  Kalydor,  if  laid  on  thick, 
Poisons   the   thirsty  wretch  that   bores  for 

blood? 

Go  !  'twas  a  just  reward  that  met  thy  crime — 
But  shun  the  sacrilege  another  time. 

That  bloom  was  made  to  look  at,  not  to  touch  ; 

To  worship,  not  approach,  that  radiant  white ; 

And  well  might  sudden  vengeance  light  on  such 


TO   A   MUSQUITO.  201 

As  dared,  like  thee,  most  impiously  to  bite. 
Thou  shouldst  have  gazed  at  distance  and  ad 
mired, 
Murmured  thy  adoration  and  retired. 

Thou'rt  welcome  to  the  town — but  why  come 
here 

To  bleed  a  brother  poet,  gaunt  like  thee  ? 
Alas  !  the  little  blood  I  have  is  dear, 

And  thin  will  be  the  banquet  drawn  from  me. 
Look  round — the  pale-eyed  sisters  in  my  cell, 
Thy  old  acquaintance,  Song  and  Famine,  dwell. 

Try  some  plump  alderman,  and  suck  the  blood 
Enriched  by  generous  wine  and  costly  meat  ; 
On  well-filled  skins,  sleek  as  thy  native  mud, 
Fix  thy  light  pump  and  press  thy  freckled 

feet  : 

Go  to  the  men  for  whom,  in  ocean's  halls, 
The  oyster  breeds,  and  the  green  turtle  sprawls. 
VOL.  i. — 9* 


202  POEMS. 

There  corks  are  drawn,  and  the  red  vintage 

flows 

To  fill  the  swelling  veins  for  thee,  and  now 
The  ruddy  cheek  and  now  the  ruddier  nose 
Shall  tempt  thee,  as  thou  flittest  round  the 

brow  ; 

And  when  the  hour  of  sleep  its  quiet  brings, 
No  angry  hand  shall  rise  to  brush  thy  wings. 


LINES  ON  REVISITING  THE  COUNTRY. 

I  STAND  upon  my  native  hills  again, 

Broad,  round,  and  green,  that  in  the  summer 

sky 
With  garniture  of  waving  grass  and  grain, 

Orchards,  and  beechen  forests,  basking  lie, 
While  deep  the  sunless  glens  are  scooped  be 
tween, 

Where  brawl  o'er  shallow  beds  the  streams  un 
seen. 

A  lisping  voice  and  glancing  eyes  are  near, 
And  ever  restless  feet  of  one,  who,  now, 


204  POEMS. 

Gathers  the  blossoms  of  her  fourth  bright  year ; 
There  plays  a  gladness  o'er  her  fair  young 

brow, 

As  breaks  the  varied  scene  upon  her  sight, 
Upheaved  and  spread  in  verdure  and  in  light. 

For  I  have  taught  her,  with  delighted  eye, 
To  gaze  upon  the  mountains, — to  behold, 

With  deep  affection,  the  pure  ample  sky, 
And  clouds  along  its  blue  abysses  rolled, — 

To  love  the  song  of  waters,  and  to  hear 

The  melody  of  winds  with  charmed  ear. 

Here,  I  have  'scaped  the  city's  stifling  heat, 
Its  horrid  sounds  and  its  polluted  air  ; 

And,  where  the  season's  milder  fervors  beat, 
And  gales,  that  sweep  the  forest  borders,  bear 

The  song  of  bird,  and  sound  of  running  stream, 

Am  come  awhile  to  wander  and  to  dream. 


ON   REVISITING   THE   COUNTRY.  205 

Ay,  flame  thy  fiercest,  sun  !   thou  canst  not 

wake, 

In  this  pure  air,  the  plague  that  walks  unseen. 

The  maize  leaf  and  the  maple  bough  but  take, 

From  thy  strong  heats,  a  deeper,   glossier 

green. 

The  mountain  wind,  that  faints  not  in  thy  ray, 
Sweeps  the  blue  steams  of  pestilence  away. 

The  mountain  wind !  most  spiritual  thing  of  all 
The  wide  earth  knows  ;  when,  in  the  sultry 
time, 

He  stoops  him  from  his  vast  cerulean  hall, 
He  seems  the  breath  of  a  celestial  clime  ! 

As  if  from  heaven's  wide-open  gates  did  flow 

Health  and  refreshment  on  the  world  below. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWEES. 

THE  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of 
the  year, 

Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and  mead 
ows  brown  and  sere. 

Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the  autumn 
leaves  lie  dead  ; 

They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the  rab 
bit's  tread. 

The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the 
shrubs  the  jay, 

And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow  through 
all  the  gloomy  day. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWEKS.     207 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers, 

that  lately  sprang  and  stood 
In  brighter  light,  and  softer  airs,  a  beauteous 

sisterhood  ? 
Alas  !  they  all  are  in  their  graves,  the  gentle 

race  of  flowers 
Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the  fair  and 

good  of  ours. 
The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie,  but  the  cold 

November  rain 
Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the  lovely 

ones  again. 


The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished 

long  ago, 
And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the 

summer  glow  ; 
But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod,  and  the  aster  in 

the  wood, 


208  POEMS. 

And  the  yellow  sun-flower  by  the  brook  in  au 
tumn  beauty  stood, 

\  Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold  heaven, 
as  falls  the  plague  on  men, 

And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone, 
from  upland,  glade,  and  glen. 


And  now,  when  comes  the  calm  mild  day,  as 

still  such  days  will  come, 
To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their 

winter  home  ; 
When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard, 

though  all  the  trees  are  still, 
And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of 

the  rill, 
The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose 

fragrance  late  he  bore, 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the 

stream  no  more. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWEKS.     209 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful 

beauty  died, 
The  fair  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded 

by  my  side  : 
In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her,  when  the 

forests  cast  the  leaf, 
And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have  a 

life  so  brief : 
Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one,  like   that 

young  friend  of  ours, 
So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with 

the  flowers. 


EOMERO. 

WHEN  freedom,  from  the  land  of  Spain, 
By  Spain's  degenerate  sons  was  driven, 

Who  gave  their  willing  limbs  again 
To  wear  the  chain  so  lately  riven  ; 

Romero  broke  the  sword  he  wore — 
"  Go,  faithful  brand/'  the  warrior  said, 

"  Go,  undishonored,  never  more 

The  blood  of  man  shall  make  thee  red  : 
I  grieve  for  that  already  shed  ; 

And  I  am  sick  at  heart  to  know, 

That  faithful  friend  and  noble  foe 


ROMEKO.  211 

Have  only  bled  to  make  more  strong 
The  yoke  that  Spain  has  worn  so  long 
Wear  it  who  will,  in  abject  fear — 

I  wear  it  not  who  have  been  free  ; 
The  perjured  Ferdinand  shall  hear 

No  oath  of  loyalty  from  me." 
Then,  hunted  by  the  hounds  of  power, 

Komero  chose  a  safe  retreat, 
Where  bleak  Nevada's  summits  tower 

Above  the  beauty  at  their  feet. 
There  once,  when  on  his  cabin  lay 
The  crimson  light  of  setting  day, 
When  even  on  the  mountain's  breast 
The  chainless  winds  were  all  at  rest, 
And  he  could  hear  the  river's  flow 
From  the  calm  paradise  below  ; 
Warmed  with  his  former  fires  again, 
He  framed  this  rude  but  solemn  strain  : 


212  POEMS. 


"  Here  will  I  make  my  home — for  here  at 

least  I  see 
Upon  this  wild    Sierra's  side,    the   steps   of 

Liberty ; 
Where  the  locust  chirps  unscared  beneath  the 

unpruned  lime, 
And  the  merry  bee  doth  hide  from  man  the 

spoil  of  the  mountain  thyme  ; 
Where  the  pure  winds  come  and  go,  and  the 

wild  vine  strays  at  will, 
An  outcast  from  the  haunts  of  men,  she  dwells 

with  Nature  still. 


n. 

"  I  see  the  valleys,  Spain  !  where  thy  mighty 

rivers  run, 

And  the  hills  that  lift  thy  harvests  and  vine 
yards  to  the  sun, 


KOMEKO.  213 

And  the  flocks  that  drink  thy  brooks  and 
sprinkle  all  the  green, 

Where  lie  thy  plains,  with  sheep-walks  seamed, 
and  olive-shades  between  : 

I  see  thy  fig-trees  bask,  with  the  fair  pome 
granate  near, 

And  the  fragrance  of  thy  lemon-groves  can 
almost  reach  me  here. 


in. 


"  Fair — fair — but  fallen  Spain  !  'tis  with  a 

swelling  heart, 
That  I  think  on  all  thou  might  st  have  been, 

and  look  at  what  thou  art ; 
But  the  strife  is  over  now,  and  all  the  good  and 

brave, 
That  would  have  raised  thee  up,  are  gone,  to 

exile  or  the  grave. 


214  POEMS. 

Thy  fleeces  are  for  monks,  thy  grapes  for  the 

convent  feast, 
And  the  wealth  of  all  thy  harvest  fields  for  the 

pampered  lord  and  priest. 


IV. 

"  But  I  shall  see  the  day — it  will  come  before 
Idie- 

I  shall  see  it  in  my  silver  hairs,  and  with  an  age- 
dimmed  eye  ; — 

When  the  spirit  of  the  land  to  liberty  shall 
bound, 

As  yonder  fountain  leaps  away  from  the  dark 
ness  of  the  ground  : 

And  to  my  mountain  cell,  the  voices  of  the  free 

Shall  rise,  as  from  the  beaten  shore  the  thunders 
of  the  sea." 


A  MEDITATION  ON  RHODE  ISLAND 
COAL. 


Decolor,  obscuris,  vilis,  non  illo  repexam 
Cesariem  regum,  non  Candida  virginis  ornat 
Colla,  nee  insigni  splendet  per  cingula  morsu. 
Sed  nova  si  nigri  videas  miracula  saxl, 
Tune  snperat  pulchros  cultus  et  qnicqnid  Eois 
Indus  litoribus  rubrii  scrutatur  in  alga. 

CLAUDIAN. 


I  SAT  beside  the  glowing  grate,  fresh  heaped 
With  Newport  coal,  and  as  the  flame  grew 

bright 
— The   many-colored   flame — and   played  and 

leaped, 


216  POEMS. 

I  thought  of  rainbows  and  the  northern  light, 
Moore's  Lalla  Eookh,  the  Treasury  Keport, 
And  other  brilliant  matters  of  the  sort. 

And  last  I  thought  of  that  fair  isle  which  sent 

The  mineral  fuel ;  on  a  summer  day 
I  saw  it  once,  with  heat  and  travel  spent, 
And  scratched  by  dwarf  oaks  in  the  hollow 

way; 
Now  dragged   through   sand,  now  jolted  over 

stone — 
A  rugged  road  through  rugged  Tiverton. 

And  hotter  grew  the  air,  and  hollower  grew 
The  deep-worn  path,  and  horror-struck,   I 
thought, 

Where  will  this  dreary  passage  lead  me  to  ? 
This  long  dull  road,  so  narrow,  deep,  and  hot  1 

I  looked  to  see  it  dive  in  earth  outright ; 

I  looked — but  saw  a  far  more  welcome  sight. 


A   MEDITATION   ON    COAL.  217 

Like  a  soft  mist  upon  the  evening  shore, 
At  once  a  lovely  isle  before  me  lay, 

Smooth  and  with  tender  verdure  covered  o'er, 
As  if  just  risen  from  its  calm  inland  bay  ; 

Sloped  each  way  gently  to  the  grassy  edge, 

And  the  small  waves  that  dallied  with  the  sedge. 

The  barley  was  just  reaped — its  heavy  sheaves 
Lay  on  the  stubble  field — the  tall  maize  stood 
Dark  in  its   summer   growth,  and  shook    its 

leaves — 
And  bright  the  sunlight  played  on  the  young 

wood — 

For  fifty  years  ago,  the  old  men  say, 
The  Briton  hewed  their  ancient  groves  away. 

I  saw  where  fountains  freshened  the  green  land, 
And  where  the  pleasant  road,  from  door  to 

door, 

With  rows  of  cherry-trees  on  either  hand, 
VOL.  i. — 10 


218  POEMS. 

Went  wandering  all  that  fertile  region  o'er — 
Kogue's  Island  once — but  when  the  rogues  were 

dead, 
Rhode  Island  was  the  name  it  took  instead. 

Beautiful  island  !  then  it  only  seemed 
A  lovely  stranger — it  has  grown  a  friend. 

I  gazed  on  its  smooth  slopes,  but  never  dreamed 
How  soon  that  green  and  quiet  isle  would 
send 

The  treasures  of  its  womb  across  the  sea, 

To  warm  a  poet's  room,  and  boil  his  tea. 

Dark  anthracite  !  that  reddenest  on  my  hearth, 
Thou  in  those  island   mines   didst   slumber 

long; 

But  now  thou  art  come  forth  to  move  the  earth, 
And  put  to  shame  the  men  that  mean  thee 
wrong. 


A    MEDITATION    ON    COAL.  219 

Thou  shalt  be  coals  of  fire  to  those  that  hate 

thee, 
And  warm  the  shins  of  all  that  underrate  thee. 

Yea,  they   did  wrong   thee   foully — they  who 

mocked 
Thy  honest  face,  and  said  thou  wouldst  not 

burn  ; 
Of  hewing  thee  to  chimney  pieces  talked 

And  grew  profane — and  swore  in  bitter  scorn, 
That  men  might  to  thy  inner  caves  retire, 
And  there,  unsinged,  abide  the  day  of  fire. 

Yet  is  thy  greatness  nigh.     I  pause  to  state, 
That  I  too  have  seen  greatness — even  I — 

Shook  hands  with  Adams — stared  at  La  Fayette, 
When,  barehead,  in  the  hot  noon  of  July, 

He  would  not  let  the  umbrella  be  held  o'er  him, 

For  which   three    cheers  burst  from  the  mob 
before  him. 


220  POEMS. 

And  I  have  seen — not  many  months  ago — 
An  eastern  Governor  in  chapeau  bras 

And  military  coat,  a  glorious  show  ! 

Bide  forth  to  visit  the  reviews,  and  ah  ! 

How  oft  he  smiled  and  bowed  to  Jonathan  ! 

How  many  hands  were  shook  and  votes  were 
won  ! 

'Twas  a  great  Governor — thou  too  shalt  be 
Great  in  thy  turn — and  wide  shall  spread  thy 

fame, 

And  swiftly  ;  furthest  Maine  shall  hear  of  thee, 
And  cold   New  Brunswick   gladden  at  thy 

name, 

And,  faintly  through  its  sleets,  the  weeping  isle 
That  sends  the    Boston  folks  their  cod  shall 
smile. 

For  thou  shalt  forge  vast  railways,  and  shalt  heat 
The  hissing  rivers  into  steam,  and  drive 


A   MEDITATION    ON    COAL.  221 

Huge  masses  from  thy  mines,  on  iron  feet, 

Walking  their  steady  way,  as  if  alive, 
Northward,  till  everlasting  ice  besets  thee, 
And  south  as  far  as  the  grim  Spaniard  lets  thee. 

Thou  shalt  make  mighty  engines  swim  the  sea, 
Like  its  own  monsters — boats  that  for  a  guinea 

Will  take  a  man  to  Havre — and  shalt  be 
The  moving  soul  of  many  a  spinning-jenny, 

And  ply  thy  shuttles,  till  a  bard  can  wear 

As  good  a  suit  of  broadcloth  as  the  mayor. 

Then  we  will  laugh  at  winter  when  we  hear 
The  grim  old  churl  about  our  dwellings  rave ; 

Thou,  from  that  "  ruler  of  the  inverted  year," 
Shalt  pluck  the  knotty  sceptre  Cowper  gave, 

And  pull  him  from  his  sledge,  and  drag  him  in, 

And  melt  the  icicles  from  off  his  chin. 


THE  NEW  MO  OK. 

WHEN,  as  the  garish  day  is  done, 
Heaven  burns  with  the  descended  sun, 

'Tis  passing  sweet  to  mark, 
Amid  that  flush  of  crimson  light, 
The  new  moon's  modest  bow  grow  bright, 

As  earth  and  sky  grow  dark. 

Few  are  the  hearts  too  cold  to  feel 
A  thrill  of  gladness  o'er  them  steal, 
When  first  the  wandering  eye 


THE  'NEW   MOON.  223 

Sees  faintly  in  the  evening  blaze, 
That  glimmering  curve  of  tender  rays 
Just  planted  in  the  sky. 

The  sight  of  that  young  crescent  brings 
Thoughts  of  all  fair  and  youthful  things — 

The  hopes  of  early  years  ; 
And  childhood's  purity  and  grace, 
And  joys  that  like  a  rainbow  chase, 

The  passing  shower  of  tears. 

The  captive  yields  him  to  the  dream 
Of  freedom,  when  that  virgin  beam 

Comes  out  upon  the  air, 
And  painfully  the  sick  man  tries 
To  fix  his  dim  and  burning  eyes 

On  the  soft  promise  there. 

Most  welcome  to  the  lover's  sight, 
Glitters  that  pure,  emerging  light  ; 


224  POEMS. 

For  prattling  poets  say- 
That  sweetest  is  the  lovers'  walk, 
And  tenderest  is  their  murmured  talk, 

Beneath  its  gentle  ray. 

And  there  do  graver  men  behold 
A  type  of  errors,  loved  of  old, 

Forsaken  and  forgiven ; 
And  thoughts  and  wishes  not  of  earth, 
Just  opening  in  their  early  birth, 

Like  that  new  light  in  heaven. 


OCTOBEK. 

A    SONNET. 

AY,  thou  art  welcome,  heaven's  delicious  breath, 
When  woods  begin  to  wear  the  crimson  leaf, 
And  suns  grow  meek,  and  the  meek  suns  grow 
brief, 

And  the  year  smiles  as  it  draws  near  its  death. 

Wind  of  the  sunny  south  !  oh  still  delay 
In  the  gay  woods  and  in  the  golden  air, 
Like  to  a  good  old  age  released  from  care, 

Journeying,  in  long  serenity,  away. 

In  such  a  bright,  late  quiet,  would  that  I 
VOL.  i. — 10* 


226  POEMS. 

Might  wear  out  life  like  thee,  mid  bowers  and 
brooks, 

And,  dearer  yet,  the  sunshine  of  kind  looks, 
And  music  of  kind  voices  ever  nigh  ; 
And  when  my  last  sand  twinkled  in  the  glass, 
Pass  silently  from  men,  as  thou  dost  pass.y 


THE  DAMSEL  OF  PERU. 

WHERE  olive  leaves  were  twinkling  in  every 

wind  that  blew, 
There  sat  beneath  the  pleasant  shade  a  damsel 

of  Peru. 
Betwixt  the  slender  boughs,  as  they  opened  to 

the  air, 
Came  glimpses  of  her  ivory  neck  and  of  her 

glossy  hair  ; 
And  sweetly  rang  her  silver  voice,  within  that 

shady  nook, 
As  from  the  shrubby  glen  is  heard  the  sound  of 

hidden  brook. 


228  POEMS. 

'Tis  a   song  of  love  and   valor,  in  the   noble 

Spanish  tongue, 
That  once  upon  the  sunny  plains  of  old  Castile 

was  sung  ; 
When,   from    their   mountain    holds,    on   the 

Moorish  rout  below, 
Had  rushed  the  Christians  like  a  flood,  and  swept 

away  the  foe. 
Awhile  that  melody  is  still,  and  then  breaks 

forth  anew, 
A  wilder  rhyme,  a  livelier  note,  of  freedom  and 

Peru. 


For  she  has  bound  the  sword  to  a   youthful 

lover's  side, 
And  sent  him  to  the  war  the  day  she  should 

have  been  his  bride, 
And  bade  him  bear  a  faithful  heart  to  battle  for 

the  right, 


THE   DAMSEL   OF   PEEU. 

And  held  the  fountains  of  her  eyes  till  he  was 

out  of  sight. 
Since  the  parting  kiss   was   given,  six  weary 

months  are  fled, 
And  yet  the  foe  is  in  the  land,  and  blood  must 

yet  he  shed. 


A  white  hand  parts  the  branches,  a  lovely  face 

looks  forth, 
And  bright   dark  eyes   gaze    steadfastly  and 

sadly  toward  the  north. 
Thou  look'st  in  vain,  sweet  maiden,  the  sharpest 

sight  would  fail 
To  spy  a  sign  of  human  life  abroad  in  all  the 

vale  ; 
For  the  noon  is  coming  on,  and  the  sunbeams 

fiercely  beat, 
And  the  silent  hills  and  forest-tops  seem  reeling 

in  the  heat. 


230  POEMS. 

That  white  hand  is  withdrawn,  that  fair  sad 

face  is  gone, 
But  the  music  of  that  silver  voice  is  flowing 

sweetly  on, 
Not  as  of  late,  in  cheerful  tones,  but  mournfully 

and  low, — 
A  ballad  of  a  tender  maid  heart-broken  long 

ago, 
Of  him  who  died  in  battle,  the  youthful  and  the 

brave, 
And  her  who  died  of  sorrow,  upon  his   early 

grave. 


But  see,  along  that  mountain's  slope,  a  fiery 

horseman  ride  ; 
Mark  his  torn  plume,  his  tarnished  belt,  the 

sabre  at  his  side. 
His  spurs  are  buried  rowel-deep,  he  rides  with 

loosened  rein, 


THE    DAMSEL   OF    PERU.  231 

There's  blood  upon  his  charger's  flank,  and  foam 

upon  the  mane  ; 
He  speeds  him  toward   the  olive-grove,  along 

that  shaded  hill : 
God  shield  the   helpless   maiden  there,  if  he 

should  mean  her  ill ! 

And  suddenly  that  song  has  ceased,  and  suddenly 

I  hear 
A  shriek  sent  up  amid  the  shade,  a  shriek — but 

not  of  fear. 
For  tender  accents  follow,  and  tenderer  pauses 

speak 
The  overflow  of  gladness,  when  words  are  all 

too  weak  : 
"  I  lay  my  good  sword  at  thy  feet,  for  now  Peru 

is  free, 
And  I  am  come  to  dwell  beside  the  olive-grove 

with  thee." 


THE  AFEICAN  CHIEF. 

CHAINED  in  the  market-place  lie  stood, 

A  man  of  giant  frame, 
Amid  the  gathering  multitude 

That  shrunk  to  hear  his  name — 
All  stern  of  look  and  strong  of  limb, 

His  dark  eye  on  the  ground  : — 
And  silently  they  gazed  on  him, 

As  on  a  lion  bound. 

Vainly,  but  well,  that  chief  had  fought, 
He  was  a  captive  now, 


THE   AFRICAN    CHIEF.  233 

Yet  pride,  that  fortune  humbles  not, 

Was  written  on  his  brow. 
The  scars  his  dark  broad  bosom  wore, 

Showed  warrior  true  and  brave  ; 
A  prince  among  his  tribe  before, 

He  could  not  be  a  slave. 

Then  to  his  conqueror  he  spake — 

"  My  brother  is  a  king  ; 
Undo  this  necklace  from  my  neck, 

And  take  this  bracelet  ring, 
And  send  me  where  my  brother  reigns, 

And  I  will  fill  thy  hands 
With  store  of  ivory  from  the  plains, 

And  gold-dust  from  the  sands." 

"  Not  for  thy  ivory  nor  thy  gold 

Will  I  unbind  thy  chain  ; 
That  bloody  hand  shall  never  hold 

The  battle-spear  again. 


234  POEMS. 

A  price  thy  nation  never  gave 
Shall  yet  be  paid  for  thee  ; 

For  thou  shalt  be  the  Christian's  slave, 
In  lands  beyond  the  sea." 

Then  wept  the  warrior  chief  and  bade 

To  shred  his  locks  away  ; 
And  one  by  one,  each  heavy  braid 

Before  the  victor  lay. 
Thick  were  the  platted  locks,  and  long, 

And  closely  hidden  there 
Shone  many  a  wedge  of  gold  among 

The  dark  and  crisped  hair. 

"  Look,  feast  thy  greedy  eye  with  gold 

Long  kept  for  sorest  need  : 
Take  it — thou  askest  sums  untold, 

And  say  that  I  am  freed. 
Take  it — my  wife,  the  long,  long  day, 

Weeps  by  the  cocoa-tree, 


THE    AFKICAN   CHIEF.  235 

And  my  young  children  leave  their  play, 
And  ask  in  vain  for  me." 

"  I  take  thy  gold — but  I  have  made 

Thy  fetters  fast  and  strong, 
And  ween  that  by  the  cocoa  shade 

Thy  wife  will  wait  thee  long." 
Strong  was  the  agony  that  shook 

The  captive's  frame  to  hear, 
And  the  proud  meaning  of  his  look 

Was  changed  to  mortal  fear. 

His  heart  was  broken — crazed  his  brain  : 

At  once  his  eye  grew  wild  ; 
He  struggled  fiercely  with  his  chain, 

Whispered,  and  wept,  and  smiled ; 
Yet  wore  not  long  those  fatal  bands 

And  once,  at  shut  of  day, 
They  drew  him  forth  upon  the  sands, 

The  foul  hyena's  prey. 


SPKIN&  IN   TOWN. 

THE  country  ever  has  a  lagging  Spring, 
Waiting  for  May  to  call  its  violets  forth, 

And  June  its  roses — showers  and  sunshine  bring, 
Slowly,  the  deepening  verdure  o'er  the  earth; 

To  put  their  foliage  out,  the  woods  are  slack, 

And  one  by  one  the  singing-birds  come  back. 

Within  the  city's  bounds  the  time  of  flowers 
Comes  earlier.     Let  a  mild  and  sunny  day, 
Such  as  full  often,  for  a  few  bright  hours, 


SPRING   IN   TOWN.  237 

Breathes  through,  the  sky  of  March  the  airs 

of  May, 

Shine  on  our  roofs  and  chase  the  wintry  gloom — 
And  lo  !  our  borders  glow  with  sudden  bloom. 

For  the  wide  sidewalks  of  Broadway  are  then 
Gorgeous  as  are  a  rivulet's  banks  in  June, 

That  overhung  with  blossoms,  through  its  glen, 
Slides  soft  away  beneath  the  sunny  noon, 

And  they  who  search  the  untrodden  wood  for 
flowers 

Meet  in  its  depths  no  lovelier  ones  than  ours. 

For  here  are  eyes  that  shame  the  violet, 

Or  the  dark  drop  that  on  the  pansy  lies, 
And  foreheads,  white,  as  when  in  clusters  set, 
-  The  anemones  by  forest  fountains  rise  ; 
And  the  spring-beauty  boasts  no  tenderer  streak 
Than  the  soft  red  on  many  a  youthful  cheek. 


238  POEMS. 

And  thick  about  those  lovely  temples  lie 
Locks  that  the  lucky  Vignardonne  has  curled, 

Thrice  happy  man  !  whose  trade  it  is  to  buy, 
And  bake,  and  braid  those  love-knots  of  the 
world  ; 

Who  curls  of  every  glossy  color  keepest, 

And  sellest,  it  is  said,  the  blackest  cheapest. 

And  well  thou  mayst — for  Italy's  brown  maids 
Send  the  dark  locks  with  which  their  brows 
are  dressed, 

And  Gascon  lasses,  from  their  jetty  braids, 
Crop  half,  to  buy  a  riband  for  the  rest  ; 

But  the  fresh  Norrnan  girls  their  tresses  spare, 

And  the  Dutch  damsel  keeps  her  flaxen  hair. 

Then,  henceforth,  let  no  maid  or  matron  grieve, 
To  see  her  locks  of  an  unlovely  hue, 

Frouzy  or  thin,  for  liberal  art  shall  give 
Such  piles  of  curls  as  nature  never  knew. 


SPRING   IN    TOWN.  239 

Eve,  with  her  veil  of  tresses,  at  the  sight 
Had  blushed,    outdone,   and   owned   herself  a 
fright. 

Soft  voices  and  light  laughter  wake  the  street, 
Like   notes  of  woodbirds,  and  where'er  the 

eye 

Threads  the  long  way,  plumes  wave,  and  twin 
kling  feet 

Fall  light,  as  hastes  that  crowd  of  beauty  by. 
The  ostrich,  hurrying  o'er  the  desert  space, 
Scarce  bore  those  tossing  plumes  with  fleeter 
pace. 

No  swimming  Juno-gait,  of  languor  born, 
Is  theirs,  but  a  light  step  of  freest  grace, 

Light  as  Camilla's  o'er  the  unbent  corn, — 
A  step  that  speaks  the  spirit  of  the  place, 

Since  Quiet,  meek  old  dame.,  was  driven  away 

To  Sing-Sing  and  the  shores  of  Tappan  bay. 


240  POEMS. 

Ye  that  dash  by  in  chariots  !  who  will  care 
For  steeds  or  footmen  now  ?  ye  cannot  show 

Fair  face,  and  dazzling  dress,  and  graceful  air, 
And  last  edition  of  the  shape  !     Ah  no  ; 

These  sights  are  for  the  earth  and  open  sky, 

And  your  loud  wheels  unheeded  rattle  by. 


THE  GLADNESS  OF  NATUBE. 

Is  this  a  time  to  "be  cloudy  and  sad, 

When  our  mother  Nature  laughs  around  ; 

When  even  the  deep  blue  heavens  look  glad, 
And  gladness  breathes  from  the  blossoming 
ground  ? 

There  are  notes  of  joy  from  the  hang-bird  and 

wren, 
And  the  gossip  of  swallows  through  all  the 

sky; 

The  ground-squirrel  gayly  chirps  by  his  den, 
And  the  wilding  bee  hums  merrily  by. 
VOL,  i, — 11 


242  POEMS. 

The  clouds  are  at  play  in  the  azure  space, 
And  their  shadows  at  play  on  the  bright 
green  vale, 

And  here  they  stretch  to  the  frolic  chase, 
And  there  they  roll  on  the  easy  gale. 

There's  a  dance  of  leaves  in  that  aspen  bower, 
There's  a  titter  of  winds  in  that  beechen  tree, 
There's  a  smile  on  the  fruit  and  a  smile  on  the 

flower, 

And  a  laugh  from  the  brook  that  runs  to  the 
sea. 

And  look  at  the  broad-faced  sun,  how  he  smiles 
On  the  dewy  earth  that  smiles  in  his  ray, 

On  the  leaping  waters  and  gay  young  isles  ; 
Ay,  look,  and  he'll  smile  thy  gloom  away. 


THE  DISINTERRED  WARRIOR. 

GATHER  him  to  his  grave  again, 

And  solemnly  and  softly  lay, 
Beneath  the  verdure  of  the  plain, 

The  warrior's  scattered  bones  away. 
Pay  the  deep  reverence,  taught  of  old, 

The  homage  of  man's  heart  to  death  ; 
Nor  dare  to  trifle  with  the  mould 

Once  hallowed  by  the  Almighty's  breath. 

The  soul  hath  quickened  every  part — 
That  remnant  of  a  martial  brow, 


244  POEMS. 

Those  ribs  that  held  the  mighty  heart, 
That  strong  arm — strong  no  longer  now. 

Spare  them,  each  mouldering  relic  spare, 
Of  God's  own  image  ;  let  them  rest, 

Till  not  a  trace  shall  speak  of  where 
The  awful  likeness  was  impressed. 

For  he  was  fresher  from  the  hand 

That  formed  of  earth  the  human  face, 
And  to  the  elements  did  stand 

In  nearer  kindred  than  our  race. 
In  many  a  flood  to  madness  tossed, 

In  many  a  storm  has  been  his  path  ; 
He  hid  him  not  from  heat  or  frost, 

But  met  them,  and  defied  their  wrath. 

Then  they  were  kind — the  forests  here, 
Eivers,  and  stiller  waters,  paid 

A  tribute  to  the  net  and  spear 
Of  the  red  ruler  of  the  shade. 


THE    DISINTERRED    WARRIOR.  245 

Fruits  on  the  woodland  branches  lay, 

Boots  in  the  shaded  soil  below, 
The  stars  looked  forth  to  teach  his  way, 

The  still  earth  warned  him  of  the  foe. 

A  noble  race  !  but  they  are  gone, 

With  their  old  forests  wide  and  deep, 
And  we  have  built  our  homes  upon 

Fields  where  their  generations  sleep. 
Their  fountains  slake  our  thirst  at  noon, 

Upon  their  fields  our  harvest  waves, 
Our  lovers  woo  beneath  their  moon — 

Then  let  us  spare  at  least  their  graves  ! 


MIDSUMMER 

A   SONNET. 

A  POWER  is  on  the  earth  and  in  the  air. 
From  which  the  vital  spirit  shrinks  afraid, 
And  shelters  him  in  nooks  of  deepest  shade, 

From  the  hot  steam  and  from  the  fiery  glare. 

Look  forth  upon  the  earth — her  thousand  plants 
Are  smitten  ;  even  the  dark  sun-loving  maize 
Faints  in  the  field  beneath  the  torrid  blaze  ; 

The  herd  beside  the  shaded  fountain  pants  ; 

For  life  is  driven  from  all  the  landscape  brown ; 


MIDSUMMER.  247 

The  bird  hath  sought  his  tree,  the  snake  his 

den, 
The  trout  floats  dead  in  the  hot  stream,  and 

men 

Drop  by  the  sun-stroke  in  the  populous  town  : 
As  if  the  Day  of  Fire  had  dawned,  and  sent 
Its  deadly  breath  into  the  firmament. 


THE  GTREEK  PAKTISAN. 

OUR  free  flag  is  dancing 

In  the  free  mountain  air, 
And  burnished  arms  are  glancing, 

And  warriors  gathering  there  ! 
And  fearless  is  the  little  train 

Whose  gallant  bosoms  shield  it ; 
The  blood  that  warms  their  hearts  shall  stain 

That  banner  ere  they  yield  it. 
— Each  dark  eye  is  fixed  on  earth, 

And  brief  each  solemn  greeting  ; 
There  is  no  look  nor  sound  of  mirth, 

Where  those  stern  men  are  meeting. 


THE   GREEK    PARTISAN.  249 

They  go  to  the  slaughter, 

To  strike  the  sudden  blow, 
And  pour  on  earth,  like  water, 

The  best  blood  of  the  foe  ; 
To  rush  on  them  from  rock  and  height, 

And  clear  the  narrow  valley, 
Or  fire  their  camp  at  dead  of  night, 

And  fly  before  they  rally. 
— Chains  are  round  our  country  pressed, 

And  cowards  have  betrayed  her, 
And  we  must  make  her  bleeding  breast 

The  grave  of  the  invader. 

Not  till  from  her  fetters 

We  raise  up  Greece  again, 
And  write  in  bloody  letters, 

That  tyranny  is  slain, — 
Oh,  not  till  then  the  smile  shall  steal 

Across  those  darkened  faces, 
Nor  one  of  all  those  warriors  feel 
VOL.  i. — 11* 


250 


POEMS. 


His  children's  dear  embraces. 
— Reap  we  not  the  ripened  wheat, 

Till  yonder  hosts  are  flying, 
And  all  their  bravest,  at  our  feet, 

Like  autumn  sheaves  are  lying. 


THE  TWO  GBAVES. 

'Tis  a  bleak  wild  hill,  but  green  and  bright 
In  the  summer  warmth  and  the  mid-day  light ; 
There's  the  hum  of  the  bee  and  the  chirp  of  the 

wren, 

And  the  dash  of  the  brook  from  the  alder  glen; 
There's  the  sound  of  a  bell  from  the  scattered 

flock, 
And  the  shade  of  the  beech  lies  cool  on  the 

rock, 
And  fresh  from   the  west  is  the  free  wind's 

breath, — 
There  is  nothing  here  that  speaks  of  death. 


252  POEMS. 

Far  yonder,  where  orchards  and  gardens  lie, 
And  dwellings  cluster,  'tis  there  men  die. 
They  are  born,  they  die,  and  are  buried  near, 
Where  the  populous  grave-yard  lightens   the 

bier ; 

For  strict  and  close  are  the  ties  that  bind 
In  death  the  children  of  human-kind  ; 
Yea,  stricter  and  closer  than  those  of  life, — 
'Tis  a  neighborhood  that  knows  no  strife. 
They  are  noiselessly  gathered — friend  and  foe — 
To  the  still  and  dark  assemblies  below  : 
Without  a  frown  or  a  smile  they  meet, 
Each  pale  and  calm  in  his  winding-sheet  ; 
In  that  sullen  home  of  peace  and  gloom, 
Crowded,  like  guests  in  a  banquet-room. 

Yet  there  are  graves  in  this  lonely  spot, 
Two  humble  graves,  but  I  meet  them  not. 
I  have  seen  them, — eighteen  years  are  past, 
Since  I  found  their  place  in  the  brambles  last, — 


THE   TWO   GRAVES.  253 

The  place  where,  fifty  winters  ago, 
And  aged  man  in  his  locks  of  snow, 
And  an  aged  matron,  withered  with  years, 
Were  solemnly  laid  ! — but  not  with  tears. 
For  none,  who  sat  by  the  light  of  their  hearth, 
Beheld  their  coffins  covered  with  earth  ; 
Their  kindred  were  far,  and  their  children  dead, 
When  the  funeral  prayer  was  coldly  said. 


Two  low  green  hillocks,  two  small  gray  stones, 
Eose  over  the  place  that  held  their  bones  ; 
But  the  grassy  hillocks  are  levelled  again, 
And  the  keenest  eye  might  search  in  vain, 
'Mong  briers,  and  ferns,  and  paths  of  sheep, 
For  the  spot  where  the  aged  couple  sleep. 


Yet  well  might  they  lay,  beneath  the  soil 
Of  this  lonely  spot,  that  man  of  toil, 


254  POEMS. 

And  trench  the  strong  hard  mould  with  the 

spade, 

Where  never  before  a  grave  was  made  ; 
For  he  hewed  the  dark  old  woods  away, 
And  gave  the  virgin  fields  to  the  day  ; 
And  the  gourd  and  the  bean,  beside  his  door, 
Bloomed  where  their  flowers  ne'er  opened  be 
fore  ; 

And  the  maize  stood  up,  and  the  bearded  rye 
Bent  low  in  the  breath  of  an  unknown  sky. 


'Tis  said  that  when  life  is  ended  here, 
/The  spirit  is  borne  to  a  distant  sphere  ; 
/  That  it  visits  its  earthly  home  no  more, 
I  Nor  looks  on  the  haunts  it  loved  before. 
But  why  should  the  bodiless  soul  be  sent 
Far  off,  to  a  long,  long  banishment  ? 
Talk  not  of  the  light  and  the  living  green  ! 
It  will  pine  for  the  dear  familiar  scene  ; 


THE   TWO   GRAVES.  255 

It  will  yearn,  in  that  strange  bright  world,  to 

behold 
The  rock  and  the  stream  it  knew  of  old. 

'Tis  a  cruel  creed,  believe  it  not  ! 
Death  to  the  good  is  a  milder  lot. 
They  are  here, — they  are  here, — that  harmless 

pair, 

In  th^  yellow  sunshine  and  flowing  air, 
In  the  light  cloud-shadows  that  slowly  pass, 
In  the  sounds  that  rise  from  the  murmuring 

grass. 

They  sit  where  their  humble  cottage  stood, 
They  walk  by  the  waving  edge  of  the  wood, 
And  list  to  the  long  accustomed  flow 
Of  the  brook  that  wets  the  rocks  below. 
Patient,  and  peaceful,  and  passionless, 
As  seasons  on  seasons  swiftly  press, 
They  watch,  and  wait,  and  linger  around, 
Till  the  day  when  their  bodies  shall  leave  the 

ground. 


THE  CONJUNCTION  OF  JUPITEK 

AND  YENUS. 

I  WOULD  not  always  reason.     The  straight 

path 

Wearies  us  with  its  never-varying  lines, 
And  we  grow  melancholy.     I  would  make 
Reason  my  guide,  but  she  should  sometimes  sit 
Patiently  by  the  way-side,  while  I  traced 
The  mazes  of  the  pleasant  wilderness 
Around  me.     She  should  be  my  counsellor, 
But  not  my  tyrant.     For  the  spirit  needs 
Impulses  from  a  deeper  source  than  hers, 


CONJUNCTION  OF  JUPITEK  AND  VENUS.  257 

And  there  are  motions,  in  the  mind  of  man 
That  she  must  look  upon  with  awe.     I  bow 
Keverently  to  her  dictates,  but  not  less 
Hold  to  the  fair  illusions  of  old  time — 
Illusions  that  shed  brightness  over  life, 
And  glory  over  nature.     Look,  even  now, 
Where  two  bright  planets  in  the  twilight  meet, 
Upon  the  saffron  heaven, — the  imperial  star 
Of  Jove,  and  she  that  from  her  radiant  urn 
Pours  forth  the  light  of  love.     Let  me  believe, 
Awhile,  that  they  are  met  for  ends  of  good, 
Amid  the  evening  glory,  to  confer 
Of  men  and  their  affairs,  and  to  shed  down 
Kind  influence.     Lo !  they  brighten  as  we  gaze, 
And  shake  out  softer  fires  !     The  great  earth 

feels 

The  gladness  and  the  quiet  of  the  time. 
Meekly  the  mighty  river,  that  infolds 
This  mighty  city,  smooths  his  front,  and  far 
Glitters  and  burns  even  to  the  rocky  base 


258  POEMS. 

Of  the  dark  heights  that  bound  him  to  the 

west ; 

And  a  deep  murmur  from  the  many  streets, 
Eises  like  a  thanksgiving.     Put  we  hence 
Dark  and  sad  thoughts  awhile — there's  time  for 

them 

Hereafter — on  the  morrow  we  will  meet, 
With  melancholy  looks,  to  tell  our  griefs, 
And  make  each  other  wretched ;  this  calm  hour, 
This  balmy,  blessed  evening,  we  will  give 
To  cheerful  hopes  and  dreams  of  happy  days, 
Born  of  the  meeting  of  those  glorious  stars. 

Enough  of  drought  has  parched  the  year,  and 

scared 

The  land  with  dread  of  famine.     Autumn,  yet, 
Shall  make  men  glad  with  unexpected  fruits. 
The  dog-star  shall  shine  harmless  :  genial  days 
Shall  softly  glide  away  into  the  keen 
And  wholesome  cold  of  winter  ;  he  that  fears 


CONJUNCTION  OF  JUPITER  AND  VENUS.  259 

The  pestilence,  shall  gaze  on  those  pure  beams, 
And  breathe,  with  confidence,  the  quiet  air. 

Emblems  of  power  and  beauty  !   well  may 

they 

Shine  brightest  on  our  borders,  and  withdraw 
Towards  the  great  Pacific,  marking  out 
The  path  of  empire.     Thus,  in  our  own  land, 
Ere  long,  the  better  Genius  of  our  race, 
Having  encompassed  earth,  and  tamed  its  tribes, 
Shall  sit  him  down  beneath  the  farthest  west, 
By  the  shore  of  that  calm  ocean,  and  look  back 
On  realms  made  happy. 

Light  the  nuptial  torch, 
And  say  the  glad,  yet  solemn  rite  that  knits 
The  youth  and  maiden.     Happy  days  to  them 
That  wed  this  evening  ! — a  long  life  of  love, 
And  blooming  sons  and  daughters  !      Happy 
they 


260  POEMS. 

Born  at  this  hour, — for  they  shall  see  an  age 
Whiter  and  holier  than  the  past,  and  go 
Late  to  their  graves.     Men  shall  wear  softer 

hearts, 

And  shudder  at  the  butcheries  of  war, 
As  now  at  other  murders. 

Hapless  Greece  ! 

Enough  of  blood  has  wet  thy  rocks,  and  stained 
Thy  rivers  ;  deep  enough  thy  chains  have  worn 
Their  links  into  thy  flesh  ;  the  sacrifice 
Of  thy  pure  maidens,  and  thy  innocent  babes, 
And  reverend  priests,  has  expiated  all 
Thy  crimes  of  old.     In  yonder  mingling  lights 
There  is  an  omen  of  good  days  for  thee. 
Thou  shalt  arise  from  midst  the  dust  and  sit 
Again  among  the  nations.     Thine  own  arm 
Shall  yet  redeem  thee.     Not  in  wars  like  thine 
The  world  takes  part.     Be  it  a  strife  of  kings, — 
Despot  with  despot  battling  for  a  throne, — 


CONJUNCTION  OF  JUPITER  AND  VENUS.   261 

And  Europe  shall  be   stirred  throughout  her 

realms, 

Nations  shall  put  on  harness,  and  shall  fall 
Upon  each  other,  and  in  all  their  bounds 
The  wailing  of  the  childless  shall  not  cease. 
Thine  is  a  war  for  liberty,  and  thou 
Must  fight  it  single-handed.     The  old  world 
Looks  coldly  on  the  murderers  of  thy  race, 
And  leaves  thee  to  the  struggle  ;  and  the  new, — 
I  fear  me  thou  couldst  tell  a  shameful  tale 
Of  fraud  and  lust  of  gain ; — thy  treasury  drained, 
And  Missolonghi  fallen.     Yet  thy  wrongs 
Shall  put  new  strength  into  thy  heart  and  hand, 
And  God  and  thy  good  sword  shall  yet  workout. 
For  thee,  a  terrible  deliverance. 


A  SUMMEK  KAMBLE. 

THE  quiet  August  noon  has  come, 
A  slumberous  silence  fills  the  sky, 

The  fields  are  still,  the  woods  are  dumb, 
In  glassy  sleep  the  waters  lie. 

And  mark  yon  soft  white  clouds  that  rest 
Above  our  vale,  a  moveless  throng  ; 

The  cattle  on  the  mountain's  breast 
Enjoy  the  grateful  shadow  long. 


A    SUMMER   RAMBLE.  263 

Oh,  how  unlike  those  merry  hours, 

In  early  June,  when  Earth  laughs  out, 

When  the  fresh  winds  make  love  to  flowers, 
And  woodlands  sing  and  waters  shout. 

When  in  the  grass  sweet  voices  talk, 
And  strains  of  tiny  music  swell 

From  every  moss-cup  of  the  rock, 
From  every  nameless  blossom's  bell. 

But  now  a  joy  too  deep  for  sound, 
A  peace  no  other  season  knows, 

Hushes  the  heavens  and  wraps  the  ground, 
The  blessing  of  supreme  repose. 

Away  !  I  will  not  be,  to-day, 

The  only  slave  of  toil  and  care. 
Away  from  desk  and  dust  !  away  ! 

I'll  be  as  idle  as  the  air. 


264  POEMS. 

Beneath  the  open  sky  abroad, 

Among  the  plants  and  breathing  things, 
The  sinless,  peaceful  works  of  God, 

111  share  the  calm  the  season  brings. 

Come,  thou,  in  whose  soft  eyes  I  see 
The  gentle  meanings  of  thy  heart, 

One  day  amid  the  woods  with  me, 
From  men  and  all  their  cares  apart. 

And  where,  upon  the  meadow's  breast, 

The  shadow  of  the  thicket  lies, 
/ 

The  blue  wild  flowers  thou  gatherest 
Shall  glow  yet  deeper  near  thine  eyes. 

Come,  and  when  mid  the  calm  profound, 
I  turn,  those  gentle  eyes  to  seek, 

They,  like  the  lovely  landscape  round, 
Of  innocence  and  peace  shall  speak. 


A    SUMMER   RAMBLE.  265 

Best  here,  beneath  the  unmoving  shade, 

And  on  the  silent  valleys  gaze, 
Winding  and  widening,  till  they  fade 

In  yon  soft  ring  of  summer  haze. 

The  village  trees  their  summits  rear 
Still  as  its  spire,  and  yonder  flock 

At  rest  in  those  calm  fields  appear 
As  chiselled  from  the  lifeless  rock. 

One  tranquil  mount  the  scene  o'erlooks — 
There  the  hushed  winds  their  sabbath  keep, 

While  a  near  hum  from  bees  and  brooks 
Comes  faintly  like  the  breath  of  sleep. 

Well  may  the  gazer  deem  that  when, 
Worn  with  the  struggle  and  the  strife, 

And  heart-sick  at  the  wrongs  of  men, 
The  good  forsakes  the  scene  of  life  ; 
VOL.  i. — 12 


266  POEMS. 

Like  this  deep  quiet  that,  awhile, 
Lingers  the  lovely  landscape  o'er, 

Shall  be  the  peace  whose  holy  smile 
Welcomes  him  to  a  happier  shore. 


A  SCENE  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE 
HUDSON. 

COOL  shades  and  dews  are  round  my  way, 

And  silence  of  the  early  day  ; 

Mid  the  dark  rocks  that  watch  his  bed, 

Glitters  the  mighty  Hudson  spread, 

Unrippled,  save  by  drops  that  fall 

From  shrubs  that  fringe  his  mountain  wall  ; 

And  o'er  the  clear  still  water  swells 

The  music  of  the  Sabbath  bells. 

All,  save  this  little  nook  of  land 
Circled  with  trees,  on  which  I  stand  ; 


268  POEMS. 

All,  save  that  line  of  hills  which  lie 
Suspended  in  the  mimic  sky — 
Seems  a  blue  void,  above,  below, 
Through  which  the  white  clouds  come  and  go, 
And  from  the  green  world's  farthest  steep 
I  gaze" into  the  airy  deep. 

Loveliest  of  lovely  things  are  they, 
On  earth,  that  soonest  pass  away. 
The  rose  that  lives  its  little  hour 
Is  prized  beyond  the  sculptured  flower. 
Even  love,  long  tried  and  cherished  long, 
Becomes  more  tender  and  more  strong, 
At  thought  of  that  insatiate  grave 
From  which  its  yearnings  cannot  save. 

Kiver  !  in  this  still  hour  thou  hast  \ 
Too  much  of  heaven  on  earth  to  last  } 
Nor  long  may  thy  still  waters  lie, 
An  image  of  the  glorious  sky. 


A   SCENE   ON   THE   HUDSON.  269 

Thy  fate  and  mine  are  not  repose, 
And  ere  another  evening  close, 
Thou  to  thy  tides  shalt  turn  again, 
And  I  to  seek  the  crowd  of  men. 


THE  HUKKICANE. 

LORD  of  the  winds  !  I  feel  thee  nigh, 
I  know  thy  breath  in  the  burning  sky  ! 
And  I  wait,  with  a  thrill  in  every  vein, 
For  the  coming  of  the  hurricane  ! 

And  lo  !  on  the  wing  of  the  heavy  gales, 
Through  the  boundless  arch  of  heaven  he  sails ; 
Silent  and  slow,  and  terribly  strong, 
The  mighty  shadow  is  borne  along, 


THE   HURRICANE. 


271 


Like  the  dark  eternity  to  come  ; 
While  the  world  below,  dismayed  and  dumb, 
Through  the  calm  of  the  thick  hot  atmosphere 
Looks  up  at  its  gloomy  folds  with  fear. 

They  darken  fast  ;  and  the  golden  blaze 
Of  the  sun  is  quenched  in  the  lurid  haze, 
And  he  sends  through  the  shade  a  funeral 

ray— 

A  glare  that  is  neither  night  nor  day, 
A  beam  that  touches,  with  hues  of  death, 
The  clouds  above  and  the  earth  beneath. 
To  its  covert  glides  the  silent  bird, 
While  the  hurricane's  distant  voice  is  heard, 
Uplifted  among  the  mountains  round, 
And  the  forests  hear  and  answer  the  sound. 

He  is  come  !  he  is  come  !  do  ye  not  behold 
His  ample  robes  on  the  wind  unrolled  ? 


272  POEMS. 

Giant  of  air  !  we  bid  thee  hail  ! — 

How  his  gray  skirts  toss  in  the  whirling  gale  ; 

How  his  huge  and  writhing  arms  are  bent, 

To  clasp  the  zone  of  the  firmament, 

And  fold  at  length,  in  their  dark  embrace, 

From  mountain  to  mountain  the  visible  space. 

Darker — still  darker  !  the  whirlwinds  bear 
The  dust  of  the  plains  to  the  middle  air  : 
And  hark  to  the  crashing,  long  and  loud, 
Of  the  chariot  of  G-od  in  the  thunder-cloud  ! 
You  may  trace  its  path  by  the  flashes  that  start 
From  the  rapid  wheels  where'er  they  dart, 
As  the  fire-bolts  leap  to  the  world  below, 
And  flood  the  skies  with  a  lurid  glow. 

What  roar  is  that  ? — 'tis  the  rain  that  breaks 
In  torrents  away  from  the  airy  lakes, 
Heavily  poured  on  the  shuddering  ground, 
And  shedding  a  nameless  horror  round. 


THE    HURKICANE.  2*73 

Ah  !    well  known  woods,  and  mountains,   and 

skies, 

With  the  very  clouds! — ye  are  lost  to  my  eyes. 
I  seek  ye  vainly,  and  see  in  your  place 
The  shadowy  tempest  that  sweeps  through  space, 
A  whirling  ocean  that  fills  the  wall 
Of  the  crystal  heaven,  and  huries  all. 
And  I,  cut  off  from  the  world,  remain 
Alone  with  the  terrible  hurricane. 


VOL.  i.— 12* 


WILLIAM  TELL. 

CHAINS  may  subdue  the  feeble  spirit,  but  thee, 
TELL,  of  the  iron  heart  !  they  could  not  tame ! 
For  thou  wert  of  the  mountains  ;  they  pro 
claim 

The  everlasting  creed  of  liberty. 
That  creed  is  written  on  the  untrampled  snow, 
Thundered  by  torrents  which  no  power  can 

hold, 
Save  that  of  G-od,  when  he  sendsforth  his  cold, 


WILLIAM   TELL.  275 

And  breathed  by  winds  that  through  the  free 

heaven  blow. 

Thou,  while  thy  prison  walls  were  dark  around, 
Didst  meditate  the  lesson  Nature  taught, 
And  to  thy  brief  captivity  was  brought 
A  vision  of  thy  Switzerland  unbound. 

The  bitter  cup  they  mingled,  strengthened 

thee 
For  the  great  work  to  set  thy  country  free. 


THE  HUNTER'S  SERENADE. 

THY  bower  is  finished,  fairest  ! 

Fit  bower  for  hunter's  bride — 
Where  old  woods  overshadow 

The  green  savanna's  side. 
I've  wandered  long,  and  wandered  far, 

And  never  have  I  met, 
In  all  this  lovely  western  land, 

A  spot  so  lovely  yet. 
But  I  shall  think  it  fairer, 

When  thou  art  come  to  bless, 


THE  HUNTER'S  SERENADE.  277 

With  thy  sweet  smile  and  silver  voice, 
Its  silent  loveliness. 

For  thee  the  jwild  grape  glistens, 

On  sunny  knoll  and  tree, 
The  slim  papaya  ripens 

Its  yellow  fruit  for  thee. 
For  thee  the  duck,  on  glassy  stream, 

The  prairie-fowl  shall  die, 
My  rifle  for  thy  feast  shall  bring 

The  wild  swan  from  the  sky. 
The  forest's  leaping  panther, 

Fierce,  beautiful,  and  fleet, 
Shall  yield  his  spotted  hide  to  be 

A  carpet  for  thy  feet. 

I  know,  for  thou  hast  told  me, 

Thy  maiden  love  of  flowers  ; 
Ah,  those  that  deck  thy  gardens 

Are  pale  compared  with  ours. 


278  POEMS. 

When  our  wide  woods  and  mighty  lawns 

Bloom  to  the  April  skies, 
The  earth  has  no  more  gorgeous  sight 

To  show  to  human  eyes. 
In  meadows  red  with  blossoms, 

All  summer  long,  the  bee 
Murmurs,  and  loads  his  yellow  thighs, 

For  thee,  my  love,  and  me. 

Or  wouldst  thou  gaze  at  tokens 

Of  ages  long  ago — 
Our  old  oaks  stream  with  mosses, 

And  sprout  with  mistletoe  ; 
And  mighty  vines,  like  serpents,  climb 

The  giant  sycamore  ; 
And  trunks,  o'erthrown  for  centuries, 

Cumber  the  forest  floor  ; 
And  in  the  great  savanna, 

The  solitary  mound, 
Built  by  the  elder  world,  o'erlooks 

The  loneliness  around. 


THE  HUNTER'S  SERENADE.  279 

Come,  thou  hast  not  forgotten 

Thy  pledge  and  promise  quite, 
With  many  blushes  murmured, 

Beneath  the  evening  light. 
Come,  the  young  violets  crowd  my  door, 

Thy  earliest  look  to  win, 
And  at  my  silent  window-sill 

The  jessamine  peeps  in. 
All  day  the  red-bird  warbles, 

Upon  the  mulberry  near, 
And  the  night-sparrow  trills  her  song, 

All  night,  with  none  to  hear. 


THE  GKEEK  BOY. 

GONE  are  the  glorious  Greeks  of  old, 

Glorious  in  mien  and  mind  ; 
Their  "bones  are  mingled  with  the  mould, 

Their  dust  is  on  the  wind ; 
The  forms  they  hewed  from  living  stone 
Survive  the  waste  of  years  alone, 
And,  scattered  with  their  ashes,  show 
What  greatness  perished  long  ago. 

Yet  fresh  the  myrtles  there — the  springs 
Gush  brightly  as  of  yore  ; 


THE   GREEK   BOY.  281 

Flowers  blossom  from  the  dust  of  kings, 

As  many  an  age  before. 
There  nature  moulds  as  nobly  now, 
As  e'er  of  old,  the  human  brow  ; 
And  copies  still  the  martial  form 
That  braved  Platasa's  battle  storm. 

Boy  !  thy  first  looks  were  taught  to  seek 

Their  heaven  in  Hellas'  skies  ; 
Her  airs  have  tinged  thy  dusky  cheek, 

Her  sunshine  lit  thine  eyes  ; 
Thine  ears  have  drunk  the  woodland  strains 
Heard  by  old  poets,  and  thy  veins 
Swell  with  the  blood  of  demigods, 
That  slumber  in  thy  country's  sods. 

Now  is  thy  nation  free — though  late — 

Thy  elder  brethren  broke — 
Broke,  ere  thy  spirit  felt  its  weight, 

The  intolerable  yoke. 


282  POEMS. 

And  Greece,  decayed,  dethroned,  doth  see 
Her  youth  renewed  in  such  as  thee  : 
A  shoot  of  that  old  vine  that  made 
The  nations  silent  in  its  shade. 


THE  PAST. 

THOU  unrelenting  Past  ! 
Strong  are  the  barriers  round  thy  dark  domain, 

And  fetters,  sure  and  fast, 
Hold  all  that  enter  thy  unbreathing  reign. 

Far  in  thy  realm  withdrawn 
Old  empires  sit  in  sullenness  and  gloom, 

And  glorious  ages  gone 
!JJie  deep  within  the  shadow  of  thy  womb, 


284  POEMS. 

Childhood,  with  all  its  mirth, 
Youth,  Manhood,  Age,  that  draws  us  to  the 
ground, 

And  last,  Man's  Life  on  earth, 
Glide  to  thy  dim  dominions,  and  are  hound. 

Thou  hast  my  better  years, 
Thou  hast  my  earlier  friends — the  good — the 
kind, 

Yielded  to  thee  with  tears — 
The  venerable  form — the  exalted  mind. 

My  spirit  yearns  to  bring 
The  lost  ones  back — yearns  with  desire  intense, 

And  struggles  hard  to  wring 
Thy  bolts  apart,  and  pluck  thy  captives  thence. 

In  vain — thy  gates  deny 
All  passage  save  to  those  who  hence  depart  ; 

Nor  to  the  streaming  eye 
Thou  giv'st  them  back — nor  to  the  broken  heart, 


THE   PAST.  285 

In  thy  abysses  hide 
Beauty  and  excellence  unknown — to  thee 

Earth's  wonder  and  her  pride 
Are  gathered,  as  the  waters  to  the  sea  ; 

Labors  of  good  to  man, 
Unpublished  charity,  unbroken  faith, — 

Love,  that  midst  grief  began, 
And  grew  with  years,  and  faltered  not  in  death. 

Full  many  a  mighty  name 
Lurks  in  thy  depths,  unuttered,  unrevered  ; 

With  thee  are  silent  fame, 
Forgotten  arts,  and  wisdom  disappeared. 

Thine  for  a  space  are  they — 
Yet  shalt  thou  yield  thy  treasures  up  at  last ; 

Thy  gates  shall  yet  give  way, 
Thy  bolts  shall  fall,  inexorable  Past  ! 


286  POEMS. 

All  that  of  good  and  fair 
Has  gone  into  thy  womb  from  earliest  time, 

Shall  then  come  forth  to  wear 
The  glory  and  the  beauty  of  its  prime. 

They  have  not  perished — no  ! 
Kind  words,  remembered  voices  once  so  sweet, 

Smiles,  radiant  long  ago, 
And  features,  the  great  soul's  apparent  seat. 

All  shall  come  back,  each  tie 
Of  pure  affection  shall  be  knit  again  ; 

Alone  shall  Evil  die, 
And  Sorrow  dwell  a  prisoner  in  thy  reign. 

And  then  shall  I  behold 
Him,  by  whose  kind  paternal  side  I  sprung, 

And  her,  who,  still  and  cold, 
Fills  the  next  grave — the  beautiful  and  young. 


NOTES. 


NOTES    TO    VOL.    I. 


Page  1. 

POEM   OF    THE  AGES. 

IN  this  poem,  written  and  first  printed  in  the  year 
1821,  the  author  has  endeavored,  from  a  survey  of  the 
past  ages  of  the  world,  and  of  the  successive  advances  of 
mankind  in  knowledge,  virtue,  and  happiness,  to  justify 
and  confirm  the  hopes  of  the  philanthropist  for  the  future 
destinies  of  the  human  race. 

Page  57. 

THE  BTJEIAL-PLAOE. 

The  first  half  of  this  fragment  may  seem  to  the 
ceader  borrowed  from  the  essay  on  Rural  Funerals  in  the 
13 


290  NOTES. 

fourth  number  of  the  Sketch-Book.  The  lines  were, 
however,  written  more  than  a  year  before  that  number 
appeared.  The  poem,  unfinished  as  it  is,  would  not  have 
been  admitted  into  this  collection,  had  not  the  author 
been  unwilling  to  lose  what  had  the  honor  of  resembling 
so  beautiful  a  composition. 

Page  82. 

THE  MASSAGE  E  AT  SOIO. 

This  poem,  written  about  the  time  of  the  horrible 
butchery  of  the  Sciotes  by  the  Turks,  in  1824,  has  been 
more  fortunate  than  most  poetical  predictions.  The  in 
dependence  of  the  Greek  nation,  which  it  foretold,  has 
come  to  pass,  and  the  massacre,  by  inspiring  a  deeper  de 
testation  of  their  oppressors,  did  much  to  promote  that 
event. 

Page  84. 
Her  maiden  veil,  her  own  black  hair,  &c. 

"  The  unmarried  females  have  a  modest  falling  down 
of  the  hair  over  the  eyes." — ELIOT. 


NOTES.  291 

Page  129. 

MONUMENT    MOUNTAIN. 

The  mountain  called  by  this  name,  is  a  remarkable 
precipice  in  Great  Barrington,  overlooking  the  rich  and 
picturesque  valley  of  the  Housatonic,  in  the  western  part 
of  Massachusetts.  At  the  southern  extremity  is,  or  was 
a  few  years  since,  a  conical  pile  of  small  stones,  erected, 
according  to  the  tradition  of  the  surrounding  country,  by 
the  Indians,  in  memory  of  a  woman  of  the  Stockbridge 
tribe,  who  killed  herself  by  leaping  from  the  edge  of  the 
precipice.  Until  within  few  years  past,  small  parties 
of  that  tribe  used  to  arrive  from  their  settlement  in  the 
western  part  of  the  State  of  New  York,  on  visits  to 
Stockbridge,  the  place  of  their  nativity  and  former  resi 
dence.  A  young  woman  belonging  to  one  of  these 
parties  related,  to  a  friend  of  the  author,  the  story  on 
which  the  poem  of  Monument  Mountain  is  founded.  An 
Indian  girl  had  formed  an  attachment  for  her  cousin, 
which,  according  to  the  customs  of  the  tribe,  was  un 
lawful.  She  was,  in  consequence,  seized  with  a  deep 
melancholy,  and  resolved  to  destroy  herself.  In  com 
pany  with  a  female  friend,  she  repaired  to  the  mountain, 


292  NOTES. 

decked  out  for  the  occasion  in  all  her  ornaments,  and, 
after  passing  the  day  on  the  summit  in  singing  with  her 
companion  the  traditional  songs  of  her  nation,  she  threw 
herself  headlong  from  the  rock,  and  was  killed. 

Page  156. 

THE   MTJEDEEED   TRAVELLER. 

Some  years  since,  in  the  month  of  May,  the  remains 
of  a  human  body,  partly  devoured  by  wild  animals,  were 
found  in  a  woody  ravine,  near  a  solitary  road  passing  be 
tween  the  mountains  west  of  the  village  of  Stockbridge. 
It  was  supposed  that  the  person  came  to  his  death  by 
violence,  but  no  traces  could  be  discovered  of  his  mur 
derers.  It  was  only  recollected  that  one  evening,  in  the 
course  of  the  previous  winter,  a  traveller  had  stopped  at 
an  inn  in  the  village  of  West  Stockbridge ;  that  he  had 
inquired  the  way  to  Stockbridge ;  and  that,  in  paying 
the  innkeeper  for  something  he  had  ordered,  it  appeared 
that  he  had  a  considerable  sum  of  money  in  his  posses 
sion.  Two  ill-looking  men  were  present,  and  went  out 
about  the  same  time  that  the  traveller  proceeded  on  his 


NOTES.  293 

journey.  During  the  winter,  also,  two  men  of  shabby 
appearance,  but  plentifully  supplied  with  money,  had 
lingered  for  awhile  about  the  village  of  Stockbridge. 
Several  years  afterward,  a  criminal,  about  to  be  executed 
for  a  capital  offence  in  Canada,  confessed  that  he  had 
been  concerned  in  murdering  a  traveller  in  Stockbridge 
for  the  sake  of  his  money.  Nothing  was  ever  discovered 
respecting  the  name  or  residence  of  the  person  murdered. 


Page  232. 
Chained  in  the  market-place  Tie  stood,  &c. 

The  story  of  the  African  Chief,  related  in  this  ballad, 
may  be  found  in  the  African  Kepository  for  April,  1825. 
The  subject  of  it  was  a  warrior  of  majestic  stature,  the 
brother  of  Yarradee,  king  of  the  Solima  nation.  He 
had  been  taken  in  battle,  and  was  brought  in  chains  for 
sale  to  the  Kio  Pongas,  where  he  was  exhibited  in  the 
market-place,  his  ankles  still  adorned  with  the  massy 
rings  of  gold  which  he  wore  when  captured.  The  re 
fusal  of  his  captor  to  listen  to  his  offers  of  ransom  drove 
him  mad,  and  he  died  a  maniac. 


294  NOTES. 


Page  256. 

THE  CONJUNCTION  OF   JTJPITEK    AND  VENUS. 

This  conjunction  was  said  in  the  common  calendars  to 
have  taken  place  on  the  2d  of  August,  1826.  This,  I 
believe,  was  an  error,  but  the  apparent  approach  of  the 
planets  was  sufficiently  near  for  poetical  purposes. 


Page  270. 

THE   HUEEIOANE. 

This  poem  is  nearly  a  translation  from  one  by  Jose 
Maria  de  Heredia,  a  native  of  the  Island  of  Cuba,  who 
published  at  New  York,  six  or  seven  years  since,  a  volume 
of  poems  in  the  Spanish  language. 

Page  274. 

WILLIAM   TELL. 

Neither  this,  nor  any  of  the  other  sonnets  in  the 
collection,  with  the  exception  of  the  one  from  the  Portu- 


NOTES.  295 

guese,  is  framed  according  to  the  legitimate  Italian  model, 
which,  in  the  author's  opinion,  possesses  no  peculiar 
beauty  for  an  ear  accustomed  only  to  the  metrical  forms 
of  our  own  language.  The  sonnets  in  this  collection  are 
rather  poems  in  fourteen  lines  than  sonnets. 


Page  277. 
The  dim  papaya  ripens,  &c. 

Papaya — papaw,  custard-apple.  Flint,  in  his  excel 
lent  work  on  the  Geography  and  History  of  the  Western 
States,  thus  describes  this  tree  and  its  fruit : 

"  A  papaw  shrub,  hanging  full  of  fruits,  of  a  size  and 
weight  so  disproportioned  to  the  stem,  and  from  under 
long  and  rich-looking  leaves,  of  the  same  yellow  with  the 
ripened  fruit,  and  of  an  African  luxuriance  of  growth,  is 
to  us  one  of  the  richest  spectacles  that  we  have  ever 
contemplated  in  the  array  of  the  woods.  The  fruit  con 
tains  from  two  to  six  seeds  like  those  of  the  tamarind,  ex 
cept  that  they  are  double  the  size.  The  pulp  of  the  fruit 
resembles  egg-custard  in  consistence  and  appearance.  It 
has  the  same  creamy  feeling  in  the  month,  and  unites  the 


296  NOTES. 

taste  of  eggs,  cream,  sugar,  and  spice.    It  is  a  natural 
custard,  too  luscious  for  the  relish  of  most  people." 

Chateaubriand,  in  his  Travels,  speaks  disparagingly  of 
the  fruit  of  the  papaw ;  hut  on  the  authority  of  Mr. 
Flint,  who  must  know  more  of  the  matter,  I  have  ven 
tured  to  make  my  western  lover  enumerate  it  among  the 
delicacies  of  the  wilderness. 


END  OF  VOL.  I. 


4 


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